


Hopeless Cathedrals

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: More Strange Adventures [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Coma, Dreams vs. Reality, Flashbacks, Hospitals, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Armitage wakes to an alarming text message and a news report that Ben has been involved in a serious wreck. He immediately sets out from his temporary digs in DC and heads for New York, hoping the whole way that he doesn't arrive too late.Ben, trapped beyond the waking world, has vivid dreams of another time and another life.Leia, bereft, must hold everyone together and continue her work for the public in spite of her grief.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set several years in the future, after the events of the completed _[Strange Adventures](http://archiveofourown.org/series/558848)_ modern BenArmie series, making some references to plot elements of what is already published. Written in response to the prompt:
>
>> He doesn't like to be seen in public right after getting out of bed, but the short and frantic text that woke him up was enough to make him throw on whatever was close by and run out the door.
> 
> I might have written a little more than the next five sentences. I hope you don't mind. Please find warnings for car crash and medical content in the end notes.

On principle, Armitage didn’t like to be seen by the general public directly after waking. He’d even denied video calls from Ben on occasion, in direct contradiction to his insistence that he knew Ben didn’t care a fig about the dark circles under his eyes—accentuated by fair skin and freckles—or the way that his hair stood up at all angles. Ben hemmed and hawed about how many times they’d woken up beside each other in the last five years, how unreasonable Armitage was being. He was growing worse with age, Ben argued, when he should be mellowing with the contentment of position and partner.

The short, frantic text that woke him though—that was enough to get him moving regardless of any vain predispositions.

Phasma never misspelled anything. She never even used short hand. So, when the message that lit up his screen read  _TUEN ON TE NEWS,_ he rushed to comply.

_WHAT CHANNEL ???_

_ANY._

_WHTS HPNING?_

_PLEASE JST WCH._

There was a pause, the silence stretching out as Armitage stumbled toward the sitting area of his tiny studio and swept papers and books aside in his search for the remote.

His phone chirped again,  _IM SO SORRY. PLS LET ME KNOW IF I CAN HELP._

Armitage shivered, gooseflesh racing up the length of his arms and tickling his spine. With trepidation, he gripped the remote and pressed the power button. The television glowed to life, blinding blue for a long moment before the live channel flipped on. He clumsily thumbed the buttons, searching for a news station.

_And we’re back with our breaking news report. Keep in mind that this story is still developing and we’ll update our broadcast as new information comes to light._

The headline on the bottom of the screen made his stomach lurch.

_SENATOR’S SON IN CRITICAL CONDITION_

The anchor took a deep breath as she finished a brief review of other news items before launching back into the report.  _Late last night, the family of popular democrat, Senator Leia Organa was involved in a devastating vehicular accident. Han Solo, Organa’s ex-husband, and Ben, their son, were rushed to Coruscant University Medical Center._

Armitage turned in a circle, scanning the room for something, anything, to throw on. He scrambled back toward the bed, hopping as he shoved his legs into jeans he’d discarded the night before. Over his threadbare undershirt he tugged on a sweater, choking and gasping at the overwhelming scent of  _Ben_  as he pulled it over his head. The garment was overly large on its rightful owner and it swallowed Armitage in a vaguely itchy void of wool. Careless of the hole in the right heel of the socks he’d been sleeping in, he rushed across the room toward the door, shoving his foot into the single boot he found there. Frantic, he searched for its twin, incredulous that that it could be misplaced in such a small space.

_It is unclear at this time who was the driver of the vehicle, though reports that it was registered to the son have been confirmed. It is also unclear at this time if any circumstance beyond the inclement weather is to blame. According to sources at the scene and our local affiliate, both Ben and Han Solo were removed from the destroyed vehicle after crashing into the concrete median barrier._

Armitage located the missing boot under the couch and put it on, lacing it quickly enough to redden his palms with friction. He grabbed his phone and wallet from the bedside table, pressing the power button on the remote and dropping it onto the couch as he passed. Coat slung awkwardly onto one arm, he fished for his keys in the pocket and rushed out the door with a bang.

Sitting tensely in the cockpit of his car, he peeled out of the private garage and jabbed at the radio controls until he found a station reporting on the story.

_Ben Solo, adult son of Senator Leia Organa—current favorite for the Democratic candidacy—is reportedly in critical condition and undergoing treatment at a local Level Two trauma center. Han Solo, father to Ben and ex-husband of Organa, was also in the vehicle. His current status is unknown._

Armitage leaned on the horn as another driver cut him off. Every second of the next fourteen thousand suddenly mattered. His focus drifted back to the radio, commercials that sounded altogether too sugary and bright grating on his nerves, as he merged onto the northbound route of the Interstate. Finally, the report circled back.

_Han Solo is a business man, successful in national shipping and exotic imports. He and Organa married at the beginning of the Senator’s career and shortly thereafter had their only child, Ben. The couple split amicably during the Senator’s second term. Ben is a professor of philosophy and ethics in New York City, frequently published alongside his uncle, Skywalker, and academic mentor, Snoke. Many will remember Ben as the unpredictable child that Organa often brought with her to Washington. Fellow lawmakers alternately described him as sullen and rambunctious, oftentimes displaying explosive changes in mood. Today, aside from his notable academic achievements, he is most recognizable as a one-time Olympic hopeful and social media icon. His various platforms boast collectively under a million followers, though his content is shared widely. Most recently, Ben Solo has been rumored to be taking a leave of absence from his university position to work on Organa’s campaign, though the information has been denied—along with Organa’s plans to run for the Democratic nomination. The Senator’s offices have been contacted for comment on this developing story and have not yet responded. Additionally, Solo’s long-time partner, Armit—_

He smashed blindly at the controls until music filled the car, drowning out the racing jumble of fears in his head. Connected automatically to the car’s wireless system, an hour into his drive the music muted to allow for the notification of an incoming call. He thumbed a control on the steering wheel.

“Mit, where are you?” Phasma’s voice rang out clearly through the speakers.

“Driving.”

“ _Fuck_ , Armitage, what the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Ben is hurt and he needs me and there are only two hours and fifty-two minutes left between us.”

“Are you even listening to the reports? It was a  _car accident_. Do you want to end up the same?”

“I’m not going to crash, Phas.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been in a car with you when you’re not under stress. That’s terrifying enough.”

“My driving is fine.”

“The rest of the universe begs to differ.”

“If you’re going to continue, then I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t! Look, I’m with Avaah.”

“Yes,  _and_?”

“She says that evidently Ben and his father had some kind of disagreement. Helge was on the phone with him not too long before it happened. No one thinks either of them were drunk or anything—they might have been arguing… with the snow—it’s early, the roads haven’t been treated yet.”

“He was upset and lost control.”

“That’s the theory.”

They were silent for a minute, tension broken only by Armitage’s impatient use of his horn as other drivers attempted to change lanes.

“Phasma? What am I going to do?”

“Get here in one piece. We’ll figure things out from there. Local station’s at the hospital camped out. They’re saying Organa’s there—big black cars parked all over the place, one of the waiting areas cleared out. No word on what’s going on with Ben or his dad, though.”

“Will you let me know if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Focus on the road.”

Phasma ended the call before Armitage could continue, leaving him alone with his fears again. He swerved, navigating through gaps in traffic to get around the single car that had been holding everything up for the last ten miles and barked out a harsh laugh. It had been Ben that had encouraged him to take the position at the Archives even though it would leave them hours apart for much of their time—too far for casual plans and a disruption of their household, but it had been the best thing for Armitage and they both knew it. Now, it seemed like the absolute worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Han are involved in a major vehicular accident in which a emotional Ben hits a concrete median while driving on a weather-compromised road. The accident results in Han's death and injuries for Ben mirroring those Kylo Ren receives on Starkiller. Ben goes through surgery off-screen and is then placed, in a coma, in the ICU where he is intubated and receiving nourishment through a central IV. A doctor briefly describes his condition. Armitage then later makes his own observations within the narration. From Ben's perspective, the motions of the accident are described. I will post further warnings if any other potentially upsetting material appears in later chapters after the first "present-day" section is posted. 
> 
> [Title from "Angels in Top-hats"](https://youtu.be/0HMtQTOd9j4)


	2. Chapter 2

Ben shuddered and arched his back, sweaty palm squeaking against the cold window pane long since frosted over with the condensation of their heated exchange. “’Tige,” he groaned, “just—almost—“

Armitage gripped the hank of hair in his hand just fractions tighter, lightheaded over the marvelously silky feel of the strands wrapped around and through his fingers and the play of stress across the muscles in Ben’s back. He shouted through his release, skin burning and tingling as the blush spread in uneven blotches over his face and chest deepened. He rested his forehead against Ben’s shoulder, gasping and trying to fill spent lungs.

Ben made a frustrated sound, pushing back against Armitage in futility. “Don’t— _don’t_ —just stay— _stay_ —“ He shifted his weight and Armitage’s dead bulk against him onto one hand, fingertips and knuckles whitening against the rust-colored brick of the wall, hissing at his own cold hand against hot skin. He laughed long minutes later, breath caught and hearts pumping more regularly. “I think we did that out of order. Wasn’t it supposed to be dinner first? The most pretentious sounding bottle of wine on the menu? Then calling the Commandant to tell him the good news… _then_ spiteful celebratory sex?”

Armitage laughed along with him, skin tight with sweat and biting his lip at the sight of Ben in the aftermath, still propped up against trendy exposed brick and stained glass. “I guess I’m just too spite-filled to do it properly.” Ben turned and he pressed white spots into the ridge of his iliac furrow, the deep _V_ too inviting. Kissing him wetly, Armitage murmured against his lips. “We can always correct the mistake later.”

At dinner, their reservations gotten mostly on the trade of Ben’s name, they discussed the logistics of the fortuitous event they’d been honoring.

Armitage frowned at the food in front of him, taking a large gulp from the wine in his hand. He set the delicate stemware down, suddenly conscious of the tension in his fingers. “I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more I don’t want to take it.”

“Why would you even consider that? This has been one of your biggest dreams for as long as I’ve known you.”

“Well, for one, it would mean I have to relocate. I was under the impression that more of the work could be done remotely since the position at the office here was cancelled.” He moaned softly, annoyed. “Battery Park would have been so much better. The Hamilton is beautiful—and it’s not a bad commute. I didn’t _apply_ for the job in DC.”

“Tige.”

“Don’t ‘ _Tige_ me. I don’t want to give you up for a stupid job.”

“It’s not stupid. And you’re not giving me up. It’ll just be long distance for a while.”

“I don’t want it to be long distance. I want it to be short distance. I only ever want you a twenty minute train ride away. I worked too hard to–”

Ben reached across the table and pinched Armitage’s forearm childishly. “Would you listen for a second instead of being completely melodramatic?” Armitage cast him a steely glare and folded his arms, waiting. “What if I got a job down in DC, too?”

“What are you talking about? You can’t possibly be considering working on your mother’s staff. You said yourself that you’d need more than biweekly appointments with your shrink for that.”

“Well,” Ben looked positively smug. “When you applied and they responded so quickly, I might have put a few feelers out.” Armitage looked at him expectantly. “One of my contacts got back to me last week and _evidently_ there’s a department chair down there that’s kind of salivating over my resume. I think who gave birth to me helped a little, but I’m not above taking advantage of that if it helps us.” He pressed his lips together in amusement, “Certainly got us a good table.”

"Ben, you can't do that."

"Why not? I can teach anywhere. There's always going to be some group of kids I can reach, someone who wants to look at the universe differently. If I've learned anything from Snoke the last handful of years, it's that there are always minds willing and wanting to be molded. I don't need to stay in New York to do that. Besides,” he sighed heavily and pushed his hair back with one hand. It cascaded right back into place as it was infuriatingly wont to do. “With all of the election talk starting, spending some time away from my mother's constituency might be good. I don’t want reporters up my ass every time I walk out the door. DC might be a little more discreet."

"What if I don't want to leave New York? I like it here. I like what we have. I like our apartment and our subway stop and what we've built," he laughed bitterly and took another gulp of wine. "The glorious machine of our lives here." He’d spent so much time under the Commandant’s control, playing his game and allowing himself to be used as just another chess piece—Armitage found solace in the steady forward roll of the gears of his life with Ben.

"We can find a new place together. The machine isn't all of this crap around us—like some planet you've commandeered and tucked away and hollowed out to fill up with all of our energies." Armitage rolled his eyes, sensing a philosophical, new-age tirade coming on. "Don't roll your eyes at me. The machine is us. Just us. We're all we need."

Ben reached over again and Armitage braced for another pinch. Instead, Ben took his hand picking it up and leaning in across the intimately sized table to brush his lips against the steady lines tattooed around the circumference of Armitage's left thumb.

"Hasn't it gotten us this far?"

"Kriffing dammit."

Ben grinned and smacked a kiss against the meat of Armitage's thumb. "You can call them back tomorrow and tell them you'll take the job. We can go down there this weekend and look for a place."

The call to the Commandant went more smoothly than either of them expected.

"He's screening his calls, I know he is. He's always in his office at this hour the predictable bastard. Not as if he'd be hap--"

The Commandant's voicemail finally picked up after a lengthy demand for the relaying of name, contact information, and the best call-back time along with an admonishment that the caller had not sought audience via email.

"Father, I've taken a position at the National Archives. I'll be relocating shortly." He looked up at Ben across the couch, his foot being meticulously worked over by broad hands and insistent fingers. "And Ben is coming with me. I will let you know what the new address will be when I have it."

Ben smirked and pressed both thumbs hard just under the ball of Armitage's foot. He winced and then felt a flood of relief.

"Send my regards to mother."

Armitage ended the call and sat staring at the phone in his hands, waiting for it to ring, waiting for Brendol's contact icon to flash across the screen. When it didn't happen he looked back at Ben, mildly dumbfounded.

"You okay?"

"Never mind if I'm okay. If you're quite finished there I do remember a promise of hours spent quieting that smart-alecky mouth of yours with something more lecherous.


	3. Chapter 3

Armitage pulled into the parking lot of the hospital at nearly noon. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what door to go into or who to speak to. Organa wasn’t answering his messages, though he wasn’t sure he’d expected her to when he first started sending them somewhere around Philadelphia. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him that Ben had been in an accident in the first place—why would she give him any kind of information thereafter?

It wasn’t as if the pair of them were engaged or married or any of that. He supposed he wasn’t really entitled to any information.

And it wasn’t as if there was ever any real love lost between himself and Ben’s family.

Armitage stumbled past the view of the line of reporters corralled across the street and made his way behind the safety of the large black vehicles parked near the entrance. He suspected there were similar cars around the back by the Emergency Room. Men in crisp suits watched him closely as he pushed through the revolving door. The lobby was eerily quiet and devoid of visitors. The barista behind the cramped Starbucks counter looked bored and tired. The security guard behind the high marble desk looked annoyed.

“My name is Armitage Hux.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, looking for his wallet. He produced his license with trembling hands and slid it across the desktop. “My par—my _Ben_ —my—he—there was an accident.” The guard squinted at him and reached up to press a button on the radio clipped to his epaulette. Armitage withdrew his license, unsure. “Should I go around to the ER? I don’t know what—“

“Just wait here.”

His face flushed with embarrassment and rage. Was he going to be thrown out? Not allowed to see Ben?

Had the worst happened?

He refused to entertain the idea.

Armitage’s heart thundered in his ears as he waited, fingers still pressed against the warm plastic of his ID and the cool marble of the desk. He pressed his lips together just as hard, trying to keep himself from blurting any of what he was thinking. Finally, the elevator _dinged!_ and a man in a suit strolled out. It felt like a movie—his sunglasses were tucked into his breast pocket, the curly cord of an earpiece disappearing into his crisp collar. He glanced at the phone in his hand and then at Armitage, considering.

“Armitage Hux.”

“Yes?”

“Come with me.”

Armitage expected to be frisked before he stepped into the elevator, but it didn’t happen. He stood nervously beside the man in the suit, trying not to look conspicuous. Catching a glimpse of himself in the highly polished surface of the metal walls around them made him blanch with embarrassment. He looked like hell.

He was led down a quiet corridor on a floor that seemed to have nothing to do with trauma toward a door with another suited man outside.

“In here, Mr. Hux.”

“Alright,” he said quietly, uncharacteristically cowed by the situation.

Armitage stepped into a private room that looked more like a hotel suite than a hospital. Even so, the bed had been pushed against the far wall under the window. Several of those rolling tray tables had been brought into the room, an array of laptops and tablets and phones splayed over them, all being feverishly worked over by one person or another. It seemed that Organa’s entire staff was crammed into the room.

“Senator.” The man in the suit prodded Armitage forward.

“Yes, I know.”

Leia Organa looked impossibly small standing in silhouette in front of the window. It was strange to see her out of her smart suits no matter how many times Armitage had had the occasion. She turned toward him, pulling her lavender sweater closed in a hug around her middle. The lines on her face looked deeply etched, grief plain upon it even though she maintained an air of calmness and confidence—not a hair of her elegantly twisted coif out of place.

“Senator,” he began.

“Leia, please. I tell you that all the time, Armitage.”

He nodded and continued. “I got in the car as soon as I heard, I—“

“I’m sorry no one called you. Everything just happened so quickly, it’s been a bit hectic. The police are investigating the crash, of course. They have Ben’s phone—somehow it made it out of car unscathed.” She made a bitter expression. “An officer came up just a short while ago, asking about a few of the contacts who’d been calling it.”

“I didn’t—“

“I know. The last text was from you—good night, you love him. Among other things.” She raised a brow, a mischievous glint in her eye there one second and gone the next.

Armitage blinked rapidly, willing away the knee-jerk emotional response to hearing Organa talk so casually about the intimate content of his private correspondence, especially one that he felt increasingly that he might never have the pleasure of again.

“But I—that text, he answered, he said he was going to bed, too.” His gut twisted at the image of Ben glancing at his phone while he was driving.

“It was a few hours before, Armitage. I know what you’re thinking, you didn’t distract him. It’s not your fault.”

He let out a breath in a rush, hyperaware at the room full of people that were trying very hard to will themselves into invisibility.

“Ben’s still in surgery.”

“Will he—“

“We don’t know yet.”

Armitage nodded. “And Ha—“ Organa looked away, lips pressed in a tight line. “ _Oh_.”

“We’re focusing on Ben.” She smiled in a watery way and gestured toward the bed, inviting him to sit amongst the piles of coats that she pushed away. “There’s still hope.”

“How?”

“How is there hope?”

“No, how did it happen?”

“We don’t know—Ben might not remember when he recovers. We’ll have to wait and see. He was driving though. He’s quite lucky. His side of the car impacted with the median, but—they flipped, right over the damn thing. Passenger’s side took more damage somehow.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, Leia.”

“There’s nothing _to_ say.” She frowned and glanced up at the clock in the corner of the television. The broadcast was live, just outside the building they were in, though the volume was muted. “We’re about due for an update, no?”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you like them paged?”

“No, let them focus on what they’re doing. I’m sure no news is good news.”

A petite young woman with her flaxen hair tied up into twin buns and a tablet clutched in the crook of her arm approached them. “Ma’am, Mr. Hux should be briefed if he’s up to it.”

“Of course, Connix.” Organa turned to Armitage, expectantly. “It’s disgusting and impersonal, but it needs to be done, Armitage. It’s best like a Band-Aid—rip it off quick, get it over with, then deal with the sting.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, Mr. Hux,” Connix began, “Given the high-profile nature of Senator Organa’s position and Ben’s own popularity, it’s important to consider what’s presented to the public and what is not.”

“What?”

“It’s not a secret that you and Ben are a couple. Your face is familiar, your name is fairly well known. Several news outlets have included mention of you in their reports. There will be press. They’re outside now. We’ve gotten word that they’ve also camped out at the university and near the building where the two of you lived together.”

“Don’t say it like that! Past-tense!” Armitage was surprised at his own shouting. The man in the suit shifted, his stance more _ready_ than it was just seconds before.

Connix continued without showing any visible signs of having been ruffled. “Our blanket policy is that no individual speaks to the press. Either simply ignore them or say _no comment_. Do not respond to phone calls, text messages, emails, or direct in-person solicitation. We’d prefer to have your phone in custody, frankly, but that’s not quite reasonable in the modern world, is it?”

“Connix, I think we’re overwhelming Armitage. We’ll talk later.” She turned to him, concern plain on her face then. “Have you eaten yet today?” Armitage shook his head, numb. “Can someone get him something?”

“That’s not necessary, I don’t think I could eat now anyway.”

“We’ll get something anyway. Starving yourself isn’t going to help him.”

“Se—Leia.” She looked at him seriously. “Why is he still in surgery?”

“Would you like me to be very frank?”

“ _Yes_ , he’s… he’s my—“ He sobbed, once, and put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re his mother—I should be fussing over _you_ , not the other way around.”

“Please, Armitage. Regardless of my own reservations, you mean the world to him. Your grief is just as important as mine.” They were quiet for a moment. “Now, hard facts, yes?”

“Please.”

“There’s a large amount of internal damage—mostly abdominal. The car was fairly crushed, they were both pinned inside. He lost a frightening amount of blood. There’s some kind of injury to his shoulder, a very strong possibility of major nerve damage. As far as they could tell, by some miracle, his legs are fine; but he might not use the arm again—might be very limited.” She paused, taking a deep breath and blowing it out through pursed lips. “There’s also some facial injury, but so far it appears superficial. If— _when—_ when he pulls through this, there are going to be some lasting reminders.”

“I don’t care if he’s got an arm or a face. I just want him.”

“I think we’re on the same page.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ben stretched and smiled, the dappled sunlight making patterns across his face as it streamed in through the curtains. “Let’s take the train down.”

“It’ll be quicker to drive.”

“Yeah, because you’re a fucking lead-foot. You’re going to get us killed one day with the way you drive.”

“As if you’re any better?”

“I may change lanes too much but at least I follow the speed limit.”

“Did you book that hotel room?”

“Not yet. You haven’t called them back.”

“I will.”

“It’s been three days.”

“They gave me a week.”

“’Tige.”

“ _Ben_.”

“Call. Them.”

Armitage frowned and climbed out of bed, shivering when his feet hit the cold hardwood. He walked through the apartment, getting as far as he could out of spite, and picked up the phone in the kitchen. It rang several times and Armitage prayed to whatever higher power there was in the universe that it was too early for anyone to be in the office to answer. “Hello? Yes, I was instructed to call this number in response to an employment offer. Armitage Hux. Yes, I can spell that. H-U-X.” He rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, it’s a very simple name. Yes, I’ll hold.”

Armitage waited without the benefit of hold music, feeling Ben watching him from the other side of the room. He turned his back on him more fully and opened the fridge, staring unseeingly inside.

“Yes, I’m here. Hello. Armitage Hux. Yes, I’ve considered your offer. I’d like to accept. You are aware that I’m currently located in New York. It will take—“ He paused, listening. “Two weeks is sufficient, yes. Thank you. I’m looking forward it.”

Armitage slammed the fridge door shut and placed the phone back into the cradle. Ben walked over, feel slapping against the tile floor. “So?”

“Happy now?”

Ben grinned and pulled Armitage into a tight hug and an indulgent kiss. “Ecstatic.”


	5. Chapter 5

Armitage hovered near the doorway of the ICU recovery room. Organa beckoned him to sit and he shook his head, unable to come closer.

If he approached the bed it would become real. At this distance, he felt he could still pretend that it was a terrible dream. He’d wake up in a cold sweat. He’d call Ben, who would pick up the phone no matter the hour and they’d murmur to each other as if lying nose to nose instead of hundreds of miles apart. Armitage would settle down, they’d hang up, he’d go back to sleep for the few hours before he was expected at the Archives.

Organa was quiet.

She leaned forward just slightly, gaze intense, as if engaged in conversation with the waxy, lifeless figure in the bed masquerading and Ben. She gently touched his fingers and pursed her lips in a resolute expression.

Armitage remained where he was, hovering first, eyes taking in every last detail of the room and studiously avoiding the figure in the bed. He leaned back against the wall when some doctor or another came in to speak with Organa, held in place rather than allowed out the door by her furrowed brow and set jaw.

The physician’s words filtered through the obstinate wall of his mind— _blood loss, swelling, inflammation, fracture… coma._

“We don’t know when he’ll wake up—if he will. From this point forward, it’s a waiting game.”

Organa laughed, a harsh bark of sound in the sterile room. “Waiting.”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Can you explain what all these things are for?” Organa’s tone was almost business-like. Armitage could appreciate the careful way she seemed to be holding herself together. The physician went on to explain the need for the various drips, monitors, and intubation. “But he’s stable now.”

“For the moment, yes.” The physician crossed their arms. “We’ll need to watch very closely.”

“How will he _eat_?” Armitage blurted from his spot near the wall.

“Excuse me?” The physician looked baffled.

Organa stood and crossed the room to where Armitage stood, a tentative hand on his elbow that was removed just as fast. “This is Armitage, he’s Ben’s…” She pressed her lips together and looked up at him with watery eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you call each other—what you prefer—I—“ She turned back to the physician, instantly composed. “He’s family.”

“How will he eat? You’ve shoved that big ugly tube down his throat. _How will he eat_?” Armitage could feel the anger bubbling in the back of his own throat.

“Sir, Mister—“

“Hux.”

“Mr. Hux,” The physician looked to Organa, who nodded. “Ben will be fed intravenously with a nutrient solution.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Calmly, they continued. “There’s too much swelling from his facial injuries to easily insert a nasogastric tube and his abdominal injuries are too complicated to insert directly into the stomach through the abdominal wall. Instead, we put an IV line.” They touched their chest, just below the collarbone. “Here.”

Armitage felt his face grow red and took a step away from Organa.

“Do you have any other questions?”

Armitage clenched his hands into fists. “Not at the moment.”

The physician nodded. “While I understand that due to your position, Senator, this is a bit of a unique situation, our policy _is_ that initial ICU visitation be limited to no more than ten or so minutes—it’s too taxing for both the patient and the visitors.” They gestured toward the door. “If you’d like to say goodbye for the moment?”

Armitage felt as though he might be ill. He turned for the door, slipping behind Organa before either of them could lead him closer to the bed and the broken body lying in it. The man in the suit was standing near the door on the other side. Armitage shivered and let out a breath in a rush of tension.

“Are you alright, Mr. Hux?”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded and resumed his post as Organa and the physician came out.

“My best advice is to go home, get some rest. You’ve been here all night.”

“My staff is actually in a room upstairs. We’ve taken over one of your singles—I’ll get them cleared out as soon as possible.”

“Up on eight?” She nodded. “Take your time. From what I understand, the ambulance chasers outside have grown in number. That floor is never even close to full—goddamned rooms are priced too high for anyone to afford them.”

Organa looked uncomfortable. “You’ll call if there’s any change?” The physician assured her that they would, but that things in the ICU tended to happen either very quickly and suddenly or not at all. “I understand.” The physician said that they would make themselves available for anything Organa needed, that the hospital would do their best to preserve the family’s privacy. She thanked them and loitered near the door as they left to attend other duties.

“Wait!” The physician turned toward Armitage, expectant. “I—I want to stay.”

“Go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee. Take a breather. You look like you need it.”

“Armitage, you drove straight through from DC, didn’t you? Go back to the apartment. Get some sleep.”

“No. I can’t go back there. I want to stay here with him.”

Organa looked at the physician as if she expected him to readily comply with the request.

They frowned. “Your security staff is staying through the night?” Organa nodded. “Alright, this is all wildly against hospital policy anyway, so I’ll allow it. Under one condition.” Armitage waited for him to continue. “You can’t just stand against the wall looking horrified. I know how tempting that is. But Ben is in there, he’s _in there_. There’s plenty of brain activity. It’s slow, but it’s there. Talk to him.” Armitage nodded, feeling dazed. “And take breaks. I’ll let my staff know you’re staying, no one should kick you out after visiting is over as long as you’re not getting in anyone’s way.” Armitage nodded, resolute.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alright. Come, let’s get that coffee, hmm?”

Armitage followed dumbly, glancing over his shoulder at the large glass window looking into the room. Sitting at a table in the cafeteria, a few members of Organa’s team just a few feet away, he felt like he was trapped in some poorly produced movie. Connix sat down at their table, tablet ever present.

“Ma’am, we’ve just heard back from the funeral parlor. They can take a meeting with you over the phone if you’d like.”

Armitage blanched, tensing in his seat and nearly toppling the coffee in front of him. Organa was unfazed, cool. Again, he thought, he admired her resilience. “No, I’ll go over there. I don’t trust anyone I can’t look in the eye. I need to know that none of those vultures out there are going to disrupt Han’s service.”

“Of course, ma’am. Will you be coming back here when you’re through or going back to the hotel?”

“I think Armitage might want some time alone with Ben this evening.” She smiled, tight. “And I’m sure Ben doesn’t want to listen to his mother all night. We’ll head back to the hotel. You’ve all put that room back the way it belongs?”

“Yes, ma’am. The cleaning staff was doing their regular sanitizing when I left.”

“Good, good. And I want someone to make sure Armitage gets something to eat at some point tonight, even if it’s just a sandwich.”

“That’s really not necessary Sen—Leia.”

“Nonsense.” Connix cleared away with a glance from Organa. “We’re going to get him back. I won’t allow anything else. There’s still strength in him, there’s still hope.” She gripped his hand like a vice. “I really am sorry no one called you. You shouldn’t have found out the way you did.”


	6. Chapter 6

“This place is so small.”

The studio was one large room. Part of it was sectioned off by a piece of low shelving into a bedroom area. The living area and kitchen flowed into each other, divided by the tall café table that the pair of them were sitting at. The bathroom was tucked behind the only real dividing wall, near the front door, behind the space that the small stove and refrigerator resided.

“It’s bigger than my old place—where I was living when we first met? Building’s nicer, too. You’ve got a doorman.”

“Mmm. True.”

“And it’s a lot less cramped now that my mom is gone.”

“Very much so. I thought she’d be here all night.”

“She just wants to help. And I think the election stuff is starting to get to her. She needed a breather.”

“Why? She does this for a living.”

“Yeah, but… She doesn’t want to _rule_ you know? That’s not how she operates. She feels like she can get more done for everyone from where she is. If she were running for president, out on the campaign trail, she’d be away from her office. Away from getting issues taken care of.”

“And if she _was_ president?”

“They’d try to eat her alive. She’d push through it, because that’s what she does. She’d let them take their bites but she wouldn’t let them taste blood. They’d block her every step of the way. Rip her apart in the press. She wouldn’t be able to be as effective because she’d have to spend so much damned time doing PR damage control.”

“Then why is there an issue at all?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated. A sort of _what do the people want?_ thing.”

Armitage plucked the pizza crust off of Ben’s plate and ripped into it. “The internet says you’re moving to the capitol to work for her campaign and that we’ve broken up over political disagreements.”

“Trying to tell me something?” Ben waggled his eyebrows.

“No. It’s just… odd. Having my life picked apart in a public forum like that. Used to be the only person I had to worry about was the Commandant. At the very least I’m still just _Ben Solo’s long-time significant other_. I’m not important enough to really dig into, thank the stars.”

Ben frowned, visibly mulling things over as he peeled a layer of half-congealed cheese off of the slice of pizza in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You finally got control—finally away from all the shit your father pulled—and now your life is like… I don’t know, bacteria in a petri dish. Constantly watched and poked at. It’s my fault.”

“How is that your fault?”

“I should be more private. I know full well that the press likes picking over my life. They don’t need to pick over yours, too. Maybe I should get rid of my blog, make my Instagram private or something.”

Armitage shrugged. It was a non-issue. There were people who followed Ben’s posts who seemed to need them. “She did buy us excellent towels, you know.”

Ben laughed, noshing on the saucy cheese, his concerns apparently suddenly forgotten. “They match the ones back home.”

“I’m really not sure I want to do this anymore.”

“’Tige, you can’t turn back now.”

“I fought so hard to get you. I don’t want to be alone again.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that. We’ve had this conversation already. The lease is for a year. In like six months I’ll be here, too. We can look for a bigger place over winter session, before I start at the new school, break the lease if we find someplace we really like. And then home will be wherever the hell we are.”

“But if you come here… Ben, you’re giving everything up. Our home, your job, all of your friends—your colleagues. Your doctors are in New York. It would be simpler if I just stayed in the city. I can keep working at the firm. Maybe the Commandant will pay for law school after all—I don’t know, I’ll see if the firm will kick anything into it, I’ve given them enough of my youth, they owe me. I can’t let you—“

“ _Armitage._ ” Ben wiped his hands on a napkin, shredding the cheap paper as he did. “Why are you trying to sabotage yourself?”

“Because things don’t ever go this right for me. They never have. I’ve had too much…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had too much _happy_. It’s time for the universe to take its pound of flesh.”

“It can take ten pounds if it wants. I’m not going to let you give up a thing that you’ve literally been talking about since the day Snoke introduced us. I can text my friends, facetime them. Hell, I could do that with San Tekka—if I really need to see him in person, I can set something up. A once or twice a month thing, I’ll fit it into my teaching schedule. I’ve got a job lined up here for the spring semester, so that’s a poor excuse.” He slipped off of the tall chair and cleared the table of the remnants of their meal. “And I’ve been telling you for years—you’re my home. If you listened to me for once instead of assuming I’m spewing galactic philosophical mumbo-jumbo, maybe that would sink into you goddamned thick skull.”

Ben shoved all of the garbage into the big black bag with all of the discarded moving debris and packing material from the array of generic Ikea fixtures that were sitting around the studio. He leaned back against the edge of the counter, a hard expression on his face.

“I don’t know where to put Millicent.”

“What?” Ben said snappishly.

“Millicent.” Armitage gestured to the only box left to be unpacked, the articulated feline skeleton he’d had for nearly a decade sitting inside. “Where should she go?”

“On the shelf between the bed and the couch. She gets a view of the whole place from there.”

Armitage smiled and nodded. He finished the chewy bite of crust he was working on and went to place the skeleton where Ben had suggested. He stood with his arms crossed near the bed, pointedly looking at the floor just in front of Ben’s feet. “I don’t mean to… I’m not intentionally trying to aggravate you.”

Ben remained silent.

“I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“I just _am_. I keep waiting to wake up and realize I’m a depressed, obsessive college student again. Under my father’s thumb. Suffocating—dying inside and not knowing how to make it stop.” He dropped his hands to his sides, fists clenched. “Praying to whatever force in the universe that would listen to just… just end it.” He unclenched his fists, crescents pressed into his palms, and slid his fingers over the steady black lines around his thumb. “I’m still perpetually afraid to trust what I’m feeling.”

“I get it, ‘Tige, I do. But if you’re afraid to trust your feelings, why not… why not just trust mine?” Ben approached slowly, as if Armitage was a deer that might be frightened away if he moved too suddenly. He took Armitage’s hand, forcing him to stop the methodic back-and-forth friction of fingers against tattoo, and pulled him close. “Do you trust me?”

“Against my better judgement,” Ben snorted. “Yes.”

“Then let’s christen the new mattress.”

“Mm.”

“And I think that coffee-table-ottoman thing looks nice.”

“Agreed. I think I want you bent over it at least once per visit.”

“That why you went for the one with the leather upholstery?”

Armitage tapped his nose before diving in for a kiss. “Less talking,” he turned, pressing his backside against Ben. “More christening the mattress.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Why are you always listening to them? They don’t care about your work.”

“They don’t understand it.”

“They’re all holding you back.”

“You’re a revolutionary thinker, Ben.” Belen smacked her palm down against the table, nearly upsetting the collected cups of coffee and tea. She sat back in her seat and pushed her hair behind her ears. “You could be doing so much more if you’d just focus on one path. Avaah! You agree, don’t you?”

Avaah considered it over the top of her cup. “I believe you’re not working to your potential. You place too much importance on how your work will affect your family and not enough on the effect of your work at large.”

Ben sipped from his coffee, listening, growing visibly tense.

“Skywalker is using you,” Helge smoothed the front of his shirt and uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “He needs to stay relevant and you’re young, popular. You have a following.”

Ben made an exasperated sound and put his cup down with just a touch too much force, making crème brulee-scented coffee splatter across his hand and the table-top. “Enough! My uncle isn’t using me. And if you’re going to make that argument then fucking Snoke has been doing that since _day one_.”

Belen cocked her head to the side like a curious bird. “Snoke opened your mind in ways that you never considered. Your concept of universal workings has expanded tenfold with—“

“Stijn? You’re awful fucking quiet.”

“None of this is relevant. A long as the book gets published I don’t really care who uses who.”

Ben rounded on the remaining member of the group, who had yet to speak. “Don’t you dare. Just keep your damned mouth _shut_.”

“Ha! You only say that because you know my opinion already and you don’t like it. That cold fish of a ginger is weighing you down. Be rid of him.”

Ben stood, his chair nearly toppling. “I’ve had enough. I’ve got a meeting with Snoke and I have to pick my dad up from the fucking airport. If you have anything else to _spew_ you have my number.” He started to walk away from the table and then turned, face flushed with angry color. “I thought I could trust you all.”

“What?” Avaah leaned forward in her seat, wide eyes narrowed. “Trust us to all fall in line? Who do you think you are? The master of us? Go have your meeting with the _Supreme Leader_ like a good little lackey and come back when you’ve got less bullshit blocking your ears.”

Ben inhaled sharply and pushed out of the door of the café, into the biting cold. He turned his collar up against the chill and walked briskly back toward campus.

In the safety of the dead end hallway that housed the philosophy department, Ben let himself be angry. He flung the door of the supply closet open and stormed inside, knocking boxes of pens and staples and paperclips to the ground. Reams of paper fluttered through the air like giant snowflakes inside a globe. Ben shuddered, fists clenched into tight fists and shoulders hitched up around his ears. He turned sharply on his heel at the sound of approaching footsteps on the high-polished tile floor. “I’ll clean it up in a minute! Oh—“ He deflated, cheeks burning red with embarrassment. “Dr. Snoke, my apologies.”

Snoke frowned, taking the scene in, his craggy face contorting in disgust. “I’ve read the manuscript and made some marks. I’m disappointed in you, Ben.”

Snoke swiveled away from the closet and made his way toward his office. Heart hammering in his chest, Ben followed, nearly slipping on the papers he’d spilled as he went.

“But—what’s wrong? What did I do wrong? I can fix it. I can fix it! My editor, she hasn’t seen it yet, not the whole thing. There’s still time. I can still make it perfect—I can do it right.”

Ben could almost hear the plaintive whine in his voice, the childlike need. It was infuriating in itself. He’d grown so utterly dependent on Snoke’s opinions, his praise. He’d let Snoke’s work shape him in ways that he felt he’d be bereft otherwise. Without Luke close by to temper those opinions, they felt like they were the only ones that mattered. With Armitage so far away, his too-rational and often cynical evaluation of Ben’s work gone with him, he was too free to be lost in the ocean of complex riddles the universe unfurled in around him moment by moment.

“Read my notes, Ben. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

“But—“

“ _But_ what? I thought you’d moved beyond that fluff Skywalker feeds you. Think for yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben let out all of the breath in his chest in a rush, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. He slumped against the wall, defeated. It seemed like someone had declared it _Berate Ben Day_ and everyone around him was celebrating with enthusiasm.

“Professor?” Ben looked up, one of his students peeking around the corner. “Is this a bad time?”

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Should I go?”

“No, no, it’s fine. You didn’t—“ Ben frowned and ran his hands though his hair. “You didn’t hear any of that did you?”

“Hmm?” The student popped an earbud out, hidden by their hair. “Sorry. Do you have time to go over my paper? O _oor_ …”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ben managed a weak smile, relieved. “Go grab a seat in my office, I’ll be there in a minute.” His student settled in a chair on one side of his cramped desk, shuffling through papers from their bag, Ben jogged back down the short hall. He made quick work of scooping the miscellaneous stationary he’d knocked over back into their containers and onto their shelves and did his best to arrange the paper that hadn’t been bent or stepped on back into neat piles. Returning to his office, he settled into his chair and logged into his computer. “Alright, what have we got?”

“You writing a book, Professor Solo?”

Ben cringed. “Ah, nope.” He grabbed the thick stack of papers, topmost printed with his name and tentative title—and covered in Snoke’s bright red scrawl. “Your paper, right?” He plopped the manuscript on a cluttered shelf behind himself as casually as possible. The student nodded and launched into their questions, finger poking at the pages they’d produced from their bag for emphasis.

Last class of the day through with just before dinnertime, Ben made his way to the airport. He called the service line on the way over, comforted with the fact that at the very least the flight was still listed as on-time. He circled once around, following instructions and _keeping it moving_ like the security staff insisted whenever he idled for too long near a gate with no one coming out to meet him. Frustrated, Ben pulled out of the never-ending queue of cars and searched for a place in the short-term lot.

“Dad,” he grumbled into his phone. “Did you get a cab and forget to tell me? Call me.”

He moved though the crowds in the main concourse and made his way toward the arrival board with a sigh. Han’s flight was near the top of the list, a bright yellow _DELAYED_ beside it. He swore under his breath and found a spot to sit that would let him see the board, settling in for a long evening. An hour went by and then two. The television, tuned to the weather station, scrolled captions across the screen. The weather had turned sour. A light rain had become wet hail and ice, the wind had picked up considerably and there were snow flurries coming in as the rain and the hail moved away. Reluctant to give his seat up entirely, he made his way to the customer service desk to ask about the flight.

“They’re circling. Some of the runways are too icy, they’ve gotta take turns. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I suppose I’d rather have him in one piece than risk a crash landing.”

“Sir, that is a terrible joke to make at an airport.”

Ben’s cheeks colored and he muttered an apology, turning away to find another seat. Another hour had him pacing in long strides through the concourse, trying to burn off frustrated energies without drawing any negative attention from security.

“Ben!”

He froze, shoulders tense. Quick steps echoed on the linoleum. Ben turned, hesitant, then relaxed. “Dad.”

Han approached with a smile on his face. “Thought you were gonna wait at the gate for me!”

“A couple hours ago, yeah.” Ben shook his head, smoothing his hair back into place when Han ruffled it affectionately. “C’mon, let’s get your luggage.”

“No need!” Hand held up the bag in his hand. “Packed light, all I got is my carry-on.”

“Good, then let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You bring the Falcon?”

“Why would I drive all the way out to your place to drive all the way back out here in that hunk of junk?”

“The Falcon isn’t a hunk of junk.”

Ben grinned and took Han’s bag, heading for the automatic doors. “C’mon, I’m parked like a mile away.” Ben stopped, confused, when he heard his name again. All of the air went out of him with an impact from behind.

“Forgot to tell you, Chewie decided to come in for the holidays too.”

Ben laughed, a stitch in his side from the force of it as he allowed the impossibly tall man who’d appeared out of nowhere to pull him into an embrace.

“Looks like traffic’s gonna be a nightmare. Why don’t you come back to my place? We’ll have something to eat, catch up? You can head back into the city in the morning.”

“I’ve got an eight-AM class to teach, dad.”

“Cancel it, I’m sure your students will thank you. Who the hell wants to get up for an ethics class that freakin’ early anyway?”

Ben laughed, shaking his head and opening the trunk of the car. “You’d be surprised. Most of my classes are full. I even got an over-tally this semester.”

“Couldn’t have anything to do with your chili-peppers on that _rate my teacher_ website thing, I’m sure.” Han looked smug, Chewie laughed in his usual booming way and folded his long legs into the back seat of the car.

“My _what,_ now?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what, dad?”

“Ha! I googled you by mistake the other day—I meant to put your name into a new text and I wasn’t paying attention, put it in the search bar thing. One of the first few results is this website where college kids give their teachers ratings—you know, a star system. Easiness, how much work, how hard the tests are, comment sections…” Han trailed off as he slid into the passenger’s seat, tapping away at the keys on his phone. “And a hotness rating. With little chili peppers. You’ve got four and a half.” Han angled the screen toward Ben as he settled behind the wheel. “Take after your old man.” Chewie made a noise of disagreement, snorting and laughing, and Han glared at him.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“ _AnonEMouse225_ says that Professor Solo is like a walking wet dream. Brilliant, easy to talk to, learn a ton in his class. But—and now that _but_ is in capitals—they’re sure they could have learned a lot more if they hadn’t spent half the semester imagining what you’d look like without pants. They also say that your husband is a very lucky man.” Han made a sour face. “Did you and Hux get married?”

Ben glanced out of the corner of his eye as he eased into the busy traffic around the airport. “No, ‘Tige and I haven’t gotten married.”

“Oh.”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Nah, I just would like to be there, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll make sure you get an invitation if we ever do it.”

“Can I give you away?”

“Excuse me?” Ben looked into the rearview mirror. Chewie was sitting there with an utterly amused expression on his face.

“You know, when they bring the bride to the front of the church and the father puts ‘er up there.”

“I’m not a bride, Dad.”

“So? I wanna look ‘im in the eye and put the fear of the Maker in ‘im before he say’s _I do_. Once a little shit, always a little shit. I like him fine enough, but I feel like it’s my obligation.”

Ben’s face flushed with color. “I think I’d rather discuss my chili pepper rating.”

Han laughed and relaxed in his seat. “I’m just teasing you, kid. I wouldn’t embarrass you like that. How’s your mom?”

“She’s… stressed.”

“The usual?”

“People want her to run.”

“And she doesn’t want to.”

“Yup.”

“What do you think?”

“I think she has a chance.”

“If she lost it would be humiliating.”

“Considering who the opposition is putting up? Yeah.”

“Do you think I could help her?”

“Just be there, I think. Listen to her. She doesn’t have many people around her who aren’t in it for their own gain anymore.”

Han nodded, contemplative. “I’m a little afraid to see her, if I’m honest.”

Ben glanced in the rearview again. Chewie had fallen asleep, forehead leaned against the window, and was snoring softly. “Oh yeah?”

“It’s been a while.”

“Last time you left wasn’t easy.”

“I know.”

“I needed you. She—we. We needed you.”

“I know.”

“Just be there.” Ben clenched his jaw, thinking of the circumstances that had pushed Han into the extended business trip he’d just returned from.

“I’m going to try.”

“That’s all we ever asked for.”

Dinner was boisterous and warm in a way that it only ever was when Han was newly home from an extended absence and occupied with telling the stories of his harrowing adventures, his right-hand man illustrating the tales with tangential arcs and enthusiastic corroboration.

Ben was fairly certain that half of the stories were complete bullshit.

Most of Han’s stories were.

It didn’t stop them from being entertaining.

He could remember the feeling of his chest opening up, feeling free, getting into the cab of a truck or the cockpit of Han’s old Mustang—even sitting in the co-pilot’s seat of whatever small plan Han happened to be flying later when he was older, whisked away on long weekends during his tumultuous teenage years when Luke wasn’t available and the cabin in the mountains wasn’t an option. It didn’t matter then, that most of it was well illustrated bullshit.

Didn’t matter in the least.

“Dad?” Ben lingered in the living room well after dinner. Chewie was fast asleep again on the couch, evidently more exhausted from travel than he eas wont to admit. Some late-night talk show was on with the volume low while Han played a card game on his tablet.

“Yeah?”

“Did you get a chance to, ah, to read my book?”

“I did.”

“What did you think?”

Han put the tablet down and licked his lips. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if considering his answer carefully. Ben’s heart battered itself against his sternum wildly. “Can we talk about it in the morning? It’s been a long day.”

“Um, yeah. We—we can do that.” Ben chewed his lip and unfolded himself from his chair, pausing. “I really do want your feedback, Dad. It would mean a lot.”

“I know. And I wanna give it to you. I finished reading on the flight in. I’d rather give you my thoughts after I’ve gotten time to gather them.”

“Okay.” Ben nodded, looking down at his feet. “I’ll, ah, I’ll head to bed then.”

“Good night, kid.”

“Night.”

Ben flopped onto the bed in the guest room, body drained and mind racing. Han was always quick with his opinions on things—on everything. Could the manuscript really be that terrible? He’d made peace over the course of the day that the work would never satisfy Snoke. He could even understand if Han had been outright bored by it, he’d never had a particular inclination toward enjoying or understanding Ben’s academic interests, even if he was supportive nonetheless. But if he was unwilling even to say simply that…

Then maybe Snoke _was_ right.

The book needed to be scrapped.

He needed to start from square one and beg his editor for more time.

Ben turned over and hung off the edge of the bed, digging through his messenger bag dumped at the foot. Finding his charger buried at the bottom, he rolled toward the head and plugged it in. His phone _plinked_ when he connected it and he stared at the lockscreen, looking beyond the photo behind the time and date, the grid that was waiting for him to swipe a pattern across.

Armitage looked back at him from the screen, or rather, looked down at the old car he was standing beside, his fingers resting lightly against the glossy exterior and the bright afternoon sun turning his hair to swirling flame and his lashes to gold against his pale cheeks.

Ben unlocked the screen and searched for rest of the photos from that afternoon, years ago now. No luck with his SD card he flicked through the _Photos of You_ tab on his Facebook until he found what he was looking for. Saving it, he opened a new application and uploaded the picture.

_@reluctantpadawan have a throwback, i wont even make you wait until thursday. what do the kids say these days? #mancrusheveryday missing him in my bones. just a few more months._

Ben hesitated, thumb poised over the _share_ button. It was an intimate photo, the first one that someone else had taken of them in any kind of _couple-y_ capacity. They were seated in the same car from his lockscreen. Armitage was holding the lapels of his coat, pulling him in and kissing him soundly. The photographer had managed to get them from an angle that lit them like a still-shot from an art film in some kind of happy accident.

He tapped the button, sending the post off into the void of the internet, wondering if Armitage would see it. His phone lit up with notifications, the bubble with the red heart tallying the _likes_ and comments in the first few moments. Armitage had twelve posts on his profile, set to private, and six followers. He rarely opened the app unless Ben told him he’d tagged him in something. An afterthought, Ben opened the post back up to edit it, adding Armitage’s handle and closing it again. He’d clear the notifications in the morning.

Setting his phone down on his chest he crossed his ankles and closed his eyes, trying to relax. He scrapped toe against heel repeatedly until both shoes clunked against the floor at the foot of the bed and sighed.

_YOU AWAKE?_

Ben smiled at the screen and answered in the affirmative.

_I CAN’T SLEEP EITHER._

_WHY NOT?_

_WIRED. LONG DAY. YOU?_

_SAME._

_IT’S TOO QUIET HERE._

_I MISS YOU._

Ben waited, the thread displaying the loading symbol as some kind of media came though. It was a photo of the cat skeleton, Armitage’s face hovering behind it, just from the middle of his nose up. Only the feline was in focus.

_MILLICENT MISSES YOU._

_NOT YOU?_

_NEVER._

_GLAD TO KNOW WHERE WE STAND :P AT LEAST MILLS LOVES ME._

There was a long pause in the stream of messages. Ben’s eyes burned with fatigue. His body ached.

_YOU STILL THERE?_

The messaging application began to load another media message. He rubbed his eyes, waiting. The download was taking too long, Ben suspected a series of increasingly ridiculous photos of Millicent. What he got when the they finally appeared was decidedly un-ridiculous.

_THAT IS NOT HELPING ME GET TO SLEEP TIGE._

Armitage’s stormy expression filled his screen, his hair artfully tousled and falling into his eyes in the first. The angle was more extreme, displaying his stretched neck and the expanse of freckled skin across his shoulders and chest in the next. Finally, it looked like Armitage had rigged up a tripod of sorts for his phone and set a timer—Ben had a sneaking suspicion it was balanced precariously against the articulated skeleton—his whole body was on display across the bed, laying atop a very worn quit and a pair of Ben’s sweatpants pushed low on his hips. The curve of his backside just peeking out over the waist band, he’d taken himself in hand with an arrogant eyebrow cocked toward the selfie-camera.

Ben stared, dry mouthed and aching for an altogether different reason.

_PROOF ENOUGH OF MY MISSING YOU?_

_MORE THAN._

_ANYTHING TO SHOW ME?_

Ben set his phone down and yanked his shirt over his head hurriedly and unbuckled his belt with a clatter. Try as he might, he couldn’t reciprocate. His mind was elsewhere.

_HELLO?_

_I’M SORRY TIGE I CAN’T._

_YOU OK?_

_NOTHING A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP WON’T FIX I THINK. BRAIN’S TOO FULL._

_YOU SURE? I CAN GET ON THE TRAIN WITHIN THE HOUR, BE BACK IN NY BY MORNING._

_NOT NECESSARY JUST THIS IS HELPING :)_

_I DON’T BELIEVE YOU BUT I’LL TAKE IT FOR NOW._ And then in a second message, sent rapidly after the first, _IT’S THE BOOK, ISN’T IT?_

_I LOVE YOU SO MUCH ARMITAGE._

_YOU TAGGED ME IN A PHOTO DIDN’T YOU. I HAVE 70 NEW FOLLOW THINGS._

_I DID. IS THAT OK?_

There was a pause before the next response. _BEN SOLO I LOVE YOU DON’T YOU EVER FORGET THAT._

Ben smiled, eyes watery. _I’M GONNA TRY TO SLEEP._

_I THINK I SHOULD TOO. CALL IF YOU NEED ME._

_NIGHT TIGE._

_NIGHT._

Ben chucked the phone onto the nightstand and wiggled out of his jeans the rest of the way, curling up under the comforter in his socks and underwear and burying his face in pillows that smelled nothing like home.

Hours slipped by. He could still hear the hum of the television in the living room. Han was probably still awake. When Ben was young he’d convinced himself that Han never slept. He always seemed to be doing something—making a call, sending a letter, later sending emails, using the fax, picking up a package—or going somewhere—in the _Falcon_ when it wasn’t pulled apart, on a plane, a train, taking off in cab headed toward some unknown quantity.

Ben turned over, flopping onto his stomach and hugging a stiff throw pillow close to his chest.

He squared his breaths, yanking his uncle’s voice from the deepest parts of his memories. _Inhale, Ben. One…two…three…four. Now hold it—no, no, count to four. Good, now let it out. Yup, four, you’ve got it._

Ben groaned, frustrated. “This isn’t _fucking_ working.”

Throwing off the comforter, he clothed himself violently, shoving legs into pants and yanking arms through sleeves. He stomped his way back into his shoes and snatched his phone from the night stand.

“I’m going out.”

“What?” Han turned in his chair, craning his neck to watch Ben struggle into his coat. “Ben, what are you doing?”

“I’m going out. I need to get out of here, Dad. I can’t… I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking. I’m going for a drive.”

“Ben, you can’t drive like this—how are you going to focus on the road if you’re upset?”

“That’s why I need to drive. I need to focus on something.”

Han sighed, standing and glancing at his sleeping friend still sprawled on the couch. “Wait, I’ll go with you. Go warm the car up.” He fished through the junk drawer in the side table for a marker and scrawled _OUT WITH BEN_ across the grossly tanned face of some politician on the front page of the newspaper, then tucked it under Chewie’s heavy arm.

Ben navigated the local roads mostly on muscle memory, winding around through town from one end to the other. Suburbia allowed Han some level of privacy, let him come and go without reporters snapping pictures of him. He’d owned the house since Leia had divorced him, though he rarely lived in it for stretches longer than a few weeks. The neat grid of the roadwork branched into cul-de-sacs that Ben looped through before heading back onto the main drag.

“What’s eatin’ you?”

“Everything.” Ben eased toward the ramp onto the Turnpike, heading for the city without a thought.

“It’s the book.”

“Of course it’s the book. What the hell else would it be?”

“Trouble in paradise?” Ben glanced at Han out of the corner of his eye, a frown creasing his whole face. “Do you really want my honest opinion?”

“On my relationship or the fucking book?”

“The book, Ben, the book!”

“Fucking yes! Dad! I want your opinion! _Fuck_!” He pressed a toe gently against the breaks in an attempt to slow and shifted the steering wheel in the direction he’d begun to skid, correcting it before he lost control. Though it seemed the weather had mostly cleared, the road had grown treacherous.

“Stars, Ben, slow down!”

“I’m not trying to speed.” They both stared ahead in tense silence. “So? Are you going to tell me?”

Han took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if preparing himself. “You’re going to tell me I’m a broken damn record.”

“Just say it, Dad.”

“Snoke is using you. He’s _always_ used you.”

“How are you getting that from what I wrote?”

“Ben, you go off on these tangents—you make these wild grabs at alternative logic and…” He sighed and rubed his face. “I’m not as smart as you, Ben. I could never even pretend to be. The way you see the world is so different and brilliant. You have _power_ , Ben. You can influence so much and make real _change_. And Snoke… Snoke is tainting that. It’s so obvious when you went and asked his advice on something, when you’re not just quoting him or referencing his work while you’re making your own point. It’s like someone else is writing it in those places. It’s not your voice.”

Ben cringed, thinking of the swaths of red ink on the printed copy of the manuscript that his mentor had returned—how he knew exactly what Han was talking about and that those were the few places Snoke had deemed fit for publication.

“It’s like your thesis all over again, Ben. We can’t just drag you up to Vermont this time, make you spend a weekend away and get your head back on straight. You’ve got students who are depending on you, people who look up to you.”

Ben adjusted the wheel again, feeling the car slide.

The road was eerily empty on either side, the odd car passing them and heading toward an exit.

“You’re on a thesis committee now too, aren’t you? What are you going to tell that kid? Wait, gotta ask Snoke if it’s okay?”

Ben gritted his teeth, trying to control the confused anger welling up in his chest.

“There is so much in that book that’s _you_ , all you. And it’s beautiful. But you’ve gotta… you’ve gotta let him _go_ , Ben.” Han reached out, brushing Ben’s cheek with his knuckles. “You don’t need him anymore.”

“Next you’re going to tell me I should call Uncle Luke, right? That he was so much of a better influence. That the book should sound more like him.”

“That’s not at all what I’m saying, Ben.”

“Snoke… Snoke gave me a _voice_ , Dad. He helped me figure out _my_ perspective. He let me… he let me work though… fuck—all my—all my weird brain _shit_. None of the crap Luke taught me—no meditation and guidance _how does that fit within the framework of our purview?_ Just fucking… just fucking _feel it_ and be it and make the framework fit _you_.”

“Ben, what did that do for you? Landed you in a hospital. Snoke is dangerous. He wants your ideas and your brilliance and your creativity—he wants your relevance. But he doesn’t give a shit what happens to _you_ in the process. He just wants his name in the credits.”

Ben sobbed, dry and loud. “I should have never started this stupid book.”

“Don’t say that. The book is amazing. It just needs work. What about Luke, anyway? Have you let him see it? Or Armitage? Your mother?”

He laughed, bitter and sharp. “No, not aside from the editor I was assigned to. Nobody but you and Snoke have seen it.”

“Ben,” Han sounded broken. Ben didn’t need to look at him to know what face he was making. He’d seen it before.

“I feel like… I feel like I’m— _fucking Maker in a black hole!”_ Ben punched at the button on the side of the steering wheel when the dashboard display lit up with a call. “What do you want, Helge? This isn’t a good time.”

“I just got in—you emailed _me_ to cover your class.”

“Yeah. Just. Fuck. Snoke’s got a key for my office—he’s got the master. Just… there’s a plan book in the top drawer. Give them the writing assignment that’s penciled in for next week.”

“Ben! Pay attention!”

“I am paying attention!” He adjusted the wheel as fat white flakes began to hit the windshield. The road glistened under his headlights.

“This is obviously a bad time, Solo. Call me in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure,” he spat at the disembodied voice filling the car. He punched the button on the wheel again to hang up.

“Why would you ask him to cover your class? Didn’t you just get finished telling me over dinner that you wanted to distance yourself from those knuckleheads? That they had no sense of the world beyond their noses and you were done with ‘em?”

“It’s not that easy!”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just _let them go_. Let Snoke go! Be your own _fucking person_. Ben you are _better than this_.” Han’s last words were said as if each having independent punctuation.

Ben flicked on the windshield wipers, wet snow sloshing over the sides of the windshield as they worked. He glanced at Han, red-faced and teary eyed, and was angry.

Angry that he was right.

Ben sobbed once, spittle flying from his lips. His face flushed a deep rouge and his vision swam. “I feel like I’m being torn apart, Dad.”

“So leave! Leave now! Don’t you have that job in DC lined up? Get out before you get hurt—get more hurt.”

“I _can’t_. I owe him—“

“You owe Snoke _nothing_ , Ben. You saved that hack’s goddamned career and he’s done nothing but make you feel small and stupid from day one!”

Hot tears rolled over Ben’s cheeks, slipping into the crevice between nose and chin and sliding over the ridges of his upper lip. “I need help,” he whispered, voice froggy. “I don’t know how to tell him _no_.”

“I don’t know _how_ to help, Ben. I can’t march in there like he’s your second grade teacher. This isn’t _Ben’s been disruptive in class and we suspect there are issues at home_ , this is your _life_. I can support the hell outta’yeh but if you don’t help _yourself_ —“

Ben’s stomach clenched. He made a minor adjustment to the wheel, clicked the speed of the wipers a notch higher.

“I get it, Dad, I get it. I just—I _understand—_ but it’s like I’m trapped in this infinite fucking loop. You’ve always just done whatever the hell you wanted—been your own boss, depended on yourself—shit.”

“Ben, slow down.”

“I’m trying!”

The speedometer ticked upward. Ben couldn’t remember when it had hit 60. Horns blared as the few people on the road around them swerved to avoid the steadily fishtailing backside of the car. Panicking, Ben turned the wheel sharply and succeeded only in straightening the car out enough to gain speed on the icy, wet road surface.

“Ben, please!” Han’s grip on the armrest molded into the door was white-knuckeled, his face was pale.

“I’m trying!” Ben clutched the wheel like a lifeline, eyes widening as they careened toward the median, concrete looming steadily closer as he struggled to correct the car’s trajectory. “ _Dad_ ,” he whispered.

The initial jolt sent Ben slamming back into his seat, his neck over-extending into the space beside it as the left headlight smashed against the low stone wall. The air-bags exploded into the cockpit of the car adding an extra punch to the power of the seatbelt across Ben’s chest—knocking the air from his lungs and making his diaphragm spasm as momentum carried him forward again.

The car continued to move as he struggled to draw breath, his chest tight with shock and piercing pain. Sparks flew in his peripheral vision as the driver’s side door scraped the median and pain flared through his bicep as he leaned into the impact, a rag-doll against the forces or action-and-reaction. He strained, trying to press the brake pedal in a useless attempt to get the car to halt.

Time moved too slow and he felt himself lift from his seat, held in place by the mercy of the seatbelt even as it bit into his aching chest. To his right, Han was stunned and silent, a confused aura about him.

The world upended and the window on Ben’s side crunched, the sound deafening in the eerie silence within the vehicle. He felt as if floating, suspended in anti-gravity as the road shimmered overhead through the windshield.

Time slammed back into proper sequence as they hit the ground, skidding as if attempting a daredevil trick and settling again with a scrape of metal.

Painfully long seconds passed. Ben’s face felt wet, his body weirdly numb and his heart hammering in his chest. His head began to throb and his neck to ache, his body crunched awkwardly in the over-turned car.

“Dad?” he croaked, blinking rapidly to clear the strange gumminess from his eyes. His fingers tingled, feeling dumb and plastic as he groped around the bulk of the airbag, reaching for Han.

Han sputtered, his fingers curling awkwardly around Ben’s index.

“Ben.” His voice was strained, reedy. He peered at Ben with a fiery look in his eyes, pushing their hands toward Ben’s face. His fingers trembled, lips working around words he seemed to be having difficulty forming. Fear rose in Ben’s gut, bubbling up the back of his throat as Han stilled.

“Dad, I’m here— _Dad_ —“

The throbbing in his head became too much, ignoring it impossible. Pressure built rapidly from somewhere within and colors danced across his field of vision before reality melted into a soupy grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Star Wars blog is this way. Around the corner and down the hall. First door on the left. You can't miss it.](avaahren.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

Slowly coming to awareness of his surroundings was as difficult a task as building his first saber had been–or at least, that was how it felt in the moment. He’d make penance for the weak-minded slip later, in the privacy of his quarters aboard the Finalizer.

He assumed, his muddled thoughts a soupy grey quality in his state of semi-consciousness–that that was where he was.

It would have been better, of course, if he’d simply perished on that miserable, crumbling rock. He’d failed in more ways than he was willing to begin to fathom. He was not worthy of prolonged life. Though worthiness of disappearing into the heart of the Force was yet in question. If he could simply forever stay in this limbo that he found himself, he would not need to seriously contemplate either notion.

Again, something best atoned for away from the prying eyes and ears of the destroyer’s crew and staff.

Coming back into his body, he stretched the limits of his already taxed consciousness, reaching into each limb and digit and crevice–all accounted for. He became aware of a thick, slow-moving current circulating around him. His nose and throat ached. His mouth felt gummy and full and his stomach clenched against an invasion when he dumbly gulped, discomfort shooting through his core. Peeling his eyes open, difficult against the thick liquid he realized he was submerged in, they stung enough close again immediately.

His surroundings were warm–slippery and smooth as he flexed his fingers and toes to test the limits of his physicality. It hummed around him at a lazy frequency that lulled him into a sense of safety. He mused, strangely, about the womb. This was how he’d once again be thrust into the world without his permission. Born again not in a New Republic medical center, bright and sterile and falsely inviting.  Nor, in the darkness of a vault meant to drive him to the brink and strip away the foolish, blindly trusting boy he once was. Instead, he was born again a specimen in display. A wet preservation to be prodded and feared and pitied, observed by those who once trembled in awe and a fear of a different kind.

He felt himself jerked upward. Orientation upended, his fragmentary consciousness retreated into the grey confusion of almost-thoughts once more.

When he surfaced for the second time, it was not within the warmth of some false womb but against the cold, smooth surface of an operating table. He shivered, the involuntary movement traveling from the deep recesses of his chest and into his limbs.

“Steady,” someone hissed. The sound came from above, like it had traveled through hyperspace to reach his ears and vibrate through the ravaged shell of his brain. Fingers tightened around his wrist, pressing into his pulse-point in a warning and comforting gesture.

He writhed and struggled to stay still, something sliding up the back of his throat and slapping across his face as the end of it finally fell from his nose. He wretched and turned onto his side, away from the hand that was touching him. Thick, overly-sweet goop dripped from his nose and surged up from his belly. Exhausted from the effort of dispelling it, he collapsed back, gasping for breath.

“No one ever said coming out of a bacta tank was easy, Ren.”

“Fuck you,” he rasped. Hux tutted above him. His eyes fluttered, stinging when the bacta clinging to his lashes touched them. Too gently, a thumb swiped across either eye. “You should have left me.”

“Unfortunately, that would have contradicted orders from the Supreme Leader.”

Ren struggled to sit up, pushing through the pain lancing through his abdomen and the throbbing in his head.

“Stay down.”

“Don’t order me about. I’m not an animal—nor am I subject to your command.” He relented in spite of himself, breathing heavily and secretly thankful for the solidity of the table beneath him. He opened his eyes in earnest and looked up at Hux, squinting through the bright lights of the medbay. “Where—where are we?”

“Outer Rim. Might as well be wild space. We’re on-planet at a secure location.”

“Snoke—“

“Is aware of your condition and expects you delivered promptly to him. I’ve stalled.”

“Why?”

“Because you were nearly dead when I found you.”

Kylo blinked rapidly, trying to focus as the light overhead swiveled and a medical droid prodded at his side. He clenched his teeth, surprised when the fingers still grasping his wrist twined into his own. “You’re hurt.”

Hux stiffened and rolled his shoulders back. Soft white bandaging wound around his forearm, made dingy with lymph from whatever wound was beneath. The index and ring fingers of his free hand were splinted together. His coppery hair was shorn short on one side, a swatch of bandaging held in place with stickiplast.

“I’m fine.”

“Your hair.”

Something soft passed over Hux’s face, gone as quick as it appeared. “Don’t give the Emdee a hard time.” He took his hand away, clenching it and stretching his fingers before returning them to a relaxed fist. He looked strange in grey casuals, blueish circles under his eyes making him appear sick and tired. Hux breathed in, lips parting as if preparing to speak. Thinking better of it, he nodded, pursing his lips, and left.

Ren pressed his lips together and groaned, the medical droid prodding more deeply.

It was no less a discomfort days later.

Kylo’s face was raw and red, the wound weeping and making him feel as though something were crawling across the exposed flesh. His side was aflame and his shoulder and neck were well on their way to the same.

“Are you sure you— _ah!—_ used bacta at all? Or was that simply a ruse?”

“Our current supply of bacta is very limited. The tank you were treated in was diluted. Bacta in itself is not a magical cure-all, and you very likely would have been made ill by it long before you were fully healed.”

“Enough!” He jerked away from the medical droid’s attentions.

“I must insist on continuing treatment. The wounds must be debrided to promote healthy tissue growth and allow further bacta-pad use to be effect—“

The droid made a mechanical screech as it sailed across the room and smashed against the wall.

“Ren!”

— _en._

He winced and sat up, gingerly examining his arm. He’d developed a curious ache in his chest, just below his collarbone. His limbs were constantly tingling, his back twinging. His ears were always buzzing, as if someone were reaching out to him through the Force and not competent enough to make true contact.

“We cannot afford to willfully destroy assets—especially not those that are currently vital to the survival of our people.”

“ _Your_ people.”

“Stop it!” Hux’s face was red with anger as he stepped into the room. “You’re acting like a child,” he spat.

Kylo huffed through his nose, an awkward and bitter smile on his face. “How is your head?” he asked as he swung his legs to the floor and flexed his bare toes. A new droid approached, tentative, and finished the job before applying fresh bacta-pads and stickiplast to his arm and neck and spraying a solution of it across his face.

“I’m fine.”

“You have stitches. They itch. Your fingers hurt. You told them to use your ration of bacta on someone else.”

Hux laughed, dark and trapped in the back of his throat. “I’m not sure why I even entertained the thought that you might stay inside your own head after such a blow.”

_Ben—_

Kylo’s smile turned fractions less bitter for a moment before falling over his face entirely. Hux moved closer. He hooked a finger and slipped it under Kylo’s chin, appraising. “This is disgusting.”

Kylo frowned, turning his expression monstrous. “It’s a reminder of my failure.”

“With any luck the bacta will—“

“No!” Kylo turned away. “I should always have it.”

“Ridiculous.”

_Ben—Ben—please?_

“Leave me.”

_Fuck, please come back, Ben._

Hux put his chin in the air, his chest out. “I can’t stall for much longer, Ren.”

_Please. I need you._

“I didn’t ask you to stall. Arrange a transport and I’ll be on my way.”

_Fuck you, Ben. Just… fuck._

“As soon as the Emdee has cleared you. I suspect it will be soon.” Hux pursed his lips and turned to leave. Glancing over his shoulder, he paused over the threshold. “Don’t make me regret risking my Force-forsaken life to get you off of that crumbling rock.”

“You were following orders.”

Hux’s fingers twitched as if actively trying to keep from clenching them into fists. His nostrils flared and relaxed. He left, not looking back again.

_Ben—_

Ren slapped his hands over his ears, wincing, trying to shut out the naggingly familiar voice in his head and knowing that shutting down a connection through the Force was not so simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the few comments on this thing. It means a lot, guys <3
> 
> [SW reblog-blog over here.](avaahren.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

“Master,” Kylo pressed his lips together to suppress a pained groan as he bowed before the hologram. “I hope to return to you soon.”

“Why have you _not_ , Kylo Ren?”

“I continue to heal, Master—the Order’s resources are limited. It has been implied that my presence here has been a boon to the morale of those who survived the destruction of Starkiller Base—seeing my recovery and commitment to my purpose has encouraged them to do so as well.”

Snoke tented long fingers beneath his chin and sneered. “How sentimental.”

Kylo took a deep breath, carefully tucking his thoughts away behind a desire to return to his training and redeem himself, hoping that Snoke was not interested in taking the considerable effort to probe his thoughts with such great distance between them.

“You will return to me within three cycles, Kylo Ren, or consider yourself dismissed from your apprenticeship—and subject to the laws of the Ren.”

Kylo’s heart clenched and fluttered. “Yes, Master.”

The hologram flickered and turned off without further ceremony. Kylo breathed out in a rush and sat down hard in the chair set before the holostation. His side twinged and throbbed. His face and shoulder pulsed in time with his heart. He ignored the pain in his limbs at large in favor of rubbing the ever tender spot below his collarbone—some deep-seated bruise that refused to fade. His mouth felt as though filled with plastifiber, _constantly._

Sleep evaded him.

The buzzing persisted—the connection becoming strong in fits and starts, always calling for a boy he no longer knew, begging for him.

“You,” he barked as the door slid open with a _hiss_ —he assumed some technician was here to beg use of the holo, some important Order business pressing. “Bring me a pitcher of water. Immediately.”

“A whole pitcher?” Kylo’s head snapped up and he glared at Hux. “Are you entertaining company or just wasting rations?”

“What are you here for?”

“I’m meant to speak with Leader Snoke. Is that not your purpose as well?”

Kylo waved a hand toward the holo, “I don’t think he’ll be available.”

Hux cleared his throat and murmured something, turning away before moving fully into the room. “Have you received orders?” He eased himself into the seat around the opposite side of the holostation.

“Yes.”

“None of my business, I suppose.” Hux raised a brow, a smirk playing across his features. He crossed one leg over the other and regarded Kylo from his place. “Leaving then, yes?”

“As soon as possible, yes?”

The door hissed open on its pneumatic track once more. Some Private approached, blanching when he noticed the occupants of the room. With shaking hands he set the grav-tray he was holding beside the holostation and began to pour sparklingly clear water from the plasto pitcher.

“You’re dismissed,” Hux shooed the young man away and rose from his seat, finishing the task he’d started. He held a cup out to Kylo, who accepted it with a level of suspicion before sipping from it. Hux drank from his own, leaning against the side of the holostation. Hux watched him closely from over the plasto rim, silent.

Kylo tried to drink slowly and found that he couldn’t, the water too-soothing against the dryness of his mouth and throat.

“More?” Hux held the pitcher up as if to pour another helping, gasping sharply when it flew from his hand. The water sloshed over the rim as Kylo plucked it from the air, entirely disregarding any sense of decorum and moaning with relief when he drank rapidly directly from the pitcher. “ _Ren_. What’s wrong with you?”

He panted, “You’ve never seen a thirsty man before?”

Hux frowned and set his cup down atop the holostation. “This isn’t simply thirst.” He crossed his arms. “Ren, you should be getting better, healing. The Emdees haven’t reported anything of great concern.” Kylo raised a brow, mildly insulted that he was being reported on to the General. “You look as though you’re wasting away.”

“I’m fine.” He gulped again from the pitcher and wiped the water from his lips and chin with the back of his hand. “Why are you suddenly concerned for my wellbeing? There is no great love lost between us.”

Hux shook his head, sighing. “Wasting away and utterly _wasted_ on him.”

Kylo’s expression turned hard, disgusted. “Blasphemy.” He curled his free hand into a fist against the arm of his chair. “Treason!”

Hux huffed an amused sound. “No, nothing of the sort. My allegiance is to _the Order_. I _am_ the Order.” He leaned in close. The faintest scent of medical salve lingered around him. The warmth of hi unmarred cheek beside Kylo’s ruined one was overwhelming. He whispered at a volume that anyone without the advantage of the Force would have had trouble perceiving—perhaps, not truly speaking aloud at all. “You’re wild, undisciplined, inefficient—and he’s made you that way. He’s led you down this path of self-destruction. Truly controlled, your power could be… catastrophic. Monumental. Tide-changing.” He paused. His hand came to rest against Kylo’s unblemished cheek, the splint his fingers were still wrapped tight in scratchy against Kylo’s skin. “Leave him behind. Be your own man rather than a conduit of his machinations.”

“And do what?” Kylo asked quietly, eyes sliding closed at the dizzying feeling of intimacy their position bled. “Be a conduit of _your_ machinations instead?”

Hux made another amused vocalization. “I think that _our_ desires may work in cooperation.” Hux straightened up again, leaned back casually against the holostation and resumed his cup of water. “Help me win this war and I’ll help you get your Jedi—“ He paused, his expression meaningful, “perhaps even a General or two.”

Kylo squinted. “You’re treading dangerous waters, Hux, it is illegal to—“

Hux’s mouth curled upward at the corners. “Oh, Ben.”

Kylo gasped and dropped the pitcher. The buzzing in his head, low and tolerable, flared wildly until he could hear no other sound. He squeezed his eyes shut in effort to keep his equilibrium in check as the floor seemed to shift and roll. Fingers, soft save for calloused crook of a trigger-finger, pressed softly against his raw cheek and made him see stars. He knew Hux had drawn close again with the press of dry lips against the corner of his mouth—still bruised and swollen.

_Come back to me._


	10. Chapter 10

Armitage would later learn that Organa had not, in fact, arrived shortly before she’d woken him. Rather, she’d been quietly sitting at the bedside, Ben’s big hand folded into both of hers for well over an hour while Armitage slept in the ugly, plastic-upholstered armchair that the hospital staff had maneuvered into the room several days earlier when it became obvious that either Armitage himself or Organa, when she could convince her security team that it wasn’t an issue, would be sleeping in the ICU room amongst the quietly beeping and whirring devices that provided a constant readout of Ben’s internal workings.

Armitage pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his face. He did his best to fold up the scratchy hospital blanket he’d been cocooned in and tucked it behind himself in the seat. “Nothing’s changed.”

“I gathered as much.”

“They were talking about the funeral—on the news.”

“I saw. I’m just glad they stayed away. Well, across the street.”

Armitage nodded and yawned, apologizing. “It was a lovely service, Sen—“

“Leia.”

“Leia. It was a nice wake. It was good to see that people had donated, like you asked, instead of filling the place with flowers.”

“I can’t stand funeral flowers. There were too many as it was. Han would have loved it though—he couldn’t resist having room’s undivided attention, the scruffy-looking nerfherder.” She wrinkled her nose for a moment and then smoothed her features into a more neutral expression. “You did quite well, Armitage.” He gave her an inquiring look. “I didn’t realize how much of the family you’d never met.” A small smiled crossed her lips. “They’re an overwhelming bunch.”

“I—I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t mind that I—“

“That you left? No, not at all. I suspected you were a bit out of place. You cleaned up well, though.”

“Phasma had to talk me out of showing up in jeans.” His lips quirked up into something of a tired smile.

“That’s the leggy blonde that came with you, yes?”

Armitage laughed, “Yes, that’s her.” He pushed his hair back away from his face and crossed his arms. “She picked my suit up from the apartment for me. Some clothes and things too.” He wasn’t quite ready to admit that he’d made a quick trip to the nearest _Target_ rather than drive into the city and collect the things he’d needed from the home he once shared with Ben.

“You haven’t been back there.”

“I—no.”

“You know, Han and I haven’t lived together in years. But… My home here—not the place in DC. The house where we raised Ben. I haven’t been able to go in it myself. It feels… empty. I sent Connix for a suit from Macys.”

Armitage nodded, understanding. He shifted his hands into his sleeves, wishing the sweater still smelled something like its rightful owner instead of the stale institutional air.

“He’s not going to die.”

“Leia… it’s been a week.” Armitage scrunched his face, destroyed and ugly, trying to hold back.

She shifted from her chair onto the edge of the bed, her back to Armitage, and ran her fingers through Ben’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead where the bandaging across his face would allow her to. “He’s still in there. I know it. I feel it.”

Armitage stood and moved toward the window that looked in on the room, watching the nurses go about their business.

“You should go back to the city, Armitage. Go get a proper night’s sleep on a good mattress. Eat some actual food. I know you’ve been staying at the motel up the highway when you’re not here—you can’t live like that. He needs you at your best.”

He smirked, briefly. “Something tells me you’ve been living like that longer than you’re willing to let on, Leia.”

She raised a brow, lips pursed as she looked over her shoulders. “I’ve a meeting with his doctors in a moment. I’d like you to come.”

“I—“

“We’ll get some coffee first. And you can brush your teeth, put yourself together. We’ve both spent far too long hold-up in this room.”

“But—“

“Luke will be here.”

“Wouldn’t you want him with you instead?”

“Luke asked to spend some time alone with Ben.”

“But I’m not—“

“You need to drop the _I’m not family_ bullshit, Armitage. Drop it or get the _kriff_ out, _now_. He chose you. Whether you have a goddamn ring on your finger or not, you’re his family. He was certainly determined to have you, even against all of our advice.” She lingered over Ben for a moment before standing and straightening her blouse. “The investigators have had a difficult time reaching you, Armitage. Have you not been answering your phone?”

“What? I—I haven’t been answering any number I don’t recognize.” Organa nodded in understanding, he’d been instructed not to.

“The police investigating the accident.” She picked up her purse and waited for Armitage to unfold himself from his chair, waited for him to gather his backpack from the narrow coat closet in the corner. “They have a few questions about Ben that I can’t answer.”

“Why would the police still be involved? It was an accident!”

“It’s a standard investigation. They’ve ruled out a malfunction in the car itself, and there’s no evidence to suggest foul-play—an attack because of me, but…”

“But what?”

“They’re wondering about Ben’s mental state.”

Armitage felt himself blanch. “I—I don’t want to talk about this.”

Leia nodded, resolute. “C’mon. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria? We’ll grab something and then head for the doctor’s office.”

Armitage watched her move through the door, past the guard who he barely noticed anymore. He smiled and nodded at the nurse as he passed her, ducking into the restroom meant for visitors. Safely inside, he gripped the porcelain sink, shuddering hard as his stomach clenched and fluttered. Getting control of himself, he cleaned his teeth in a brusk manner, grimacing at the pink in the sink. He righted his hair and splashed some water on his face. Patting himself dry with a thin paper towel, he laughed—manic. Days ago he would have turned his nose up and declined a call—he would have ducked beneath the comforter until Ben got out of bed or turned away. Reluctantly, he pulled Ben’s over-seized sweater off and carefully folded it into his bag, trading it for the mildly wrinkled dress shirt he’d worn to the Han’s wake the evening before. Appraising himself in the mirror, he tried to look less ruined—only succeeding in imagining how Ben would tease him about how rugged he was beginning to look with the coppery shadow on his cheeks.

Unable to find a reasonable excuse for stalling any longer, Armitage headed for the cafeteria. Detouring back briefly to Ben’s room, he meant to drop his backpack off only to think better of it.

Standing in the room was a man he’d met rarely and briefly with somber eyes and a thoughtful hand against his heavily bearded chin. The resemblance to Organa in posture and appearance was disquieting.

The latter, he approached tentatively.

She sat alone in the midst of other families who had arrived for early visiting hours only to be shooed away by doctors doing rounds or nurses taking vitals, a pair of her security team seated a table away in casual clothing. Two steaming cups obviously fetched from the Starbucks kiosk in the front lobby rather than of what the hospital pretended was coffee sat in front of her. As he approached, she closed her eyes and breathed in, filling her chest and letting her shoulders rise. Armitage froze. Taking her hands away from the cup in front of her she covered her face with them. Shaking, she breathed out slowly. Empty, she placed her hands flat on the table and opened her eyes.

Armitage cleared his throat, hoping to gain her attention without drawing attention to her. She seemed to blend with the families gathered there, the odd scrub-clad medic—everyone focused on their own grief or quiet celebration.

“Luke is here.”

Organa fixed a smile on her face and nudged one of the paper cups toward Armitage as he sat. “I know. Even us senile old-folk can manage a text message or two.”

Armitage’s head was swimming with all that the doctor had said when Organa’s man hustled him into the back of a sleek, black sedan. He took Armitage’s keycard, insisting that he’d send someone with Armitage’s car, that they’d clear out whatever odds and ends he’d left at the motel.

“Go home,” Leia had said. “Sleep in a decent bed. Take a good shower. Eat something that’s not out of a cafeteria or a fast-food bag.” She smiled, wearily, “When he wakes up he’ll give me hell if he sees you so worn out.”

_Rule of thumb is five days of rehabilitation for every single day hospitalized—especially immobile._

“Uptown—right, Hux?” The driver asked as if he didn’t already know, trying to pull Armitage into casual conversation.

“Yeah.” He frowned as New Jersey disappeared into the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel and New York sprang up in its wake. He tied to hold his breath the whole way through, remembering some foolish story Ben had told him, only succeeding in making himself lightheaded.

_Neuromuscular electrical stimulation may help—_

“This is me.” Armitage leaned forward and indicated a brick building near the end of the block as they crawled through his neighborhood. “What’s that car there? Is it one of yours?”

“Mm. Diversion.” He jerked his chin toward the photographers lurking on the opposite side of the street. “You’ve got a hat, right?”

“I’ve a hood.”

“You should put it up.”

“Isn’t that a bit obvious?”

“It’s better than nothing.” The car pulled into a space in the middle of the block. “You want me to go up with you?”

“No.” Armitage grabbed his backpack up from the floor and ducked out of the car. He hesitated on the sidewalk, smoothing his hood forward and adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “You can go, now. Thank you.”

The driver leaned across the cockpit of the car and peeked out the open passenger’s side window. “Senator Organa wants me to see you go into the building.” Armitage nodded, grimacing, and walked briskly toward the front steps. He bounded up two at a time and hurtled inside when the doorman opened the heavy glass door.

“Mr. Hux—it’s good to see you again.” The doorman looked solemn. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Thanks.” Armitage nodded, eyes on the floor, and bypassed the bank of shining mailboxes. Theirs would be empty—Ben always preferring a PO box to make sure his mail didn’t fall prey to busybodies. Armitage would have to make his way to the post office at some point to clear it out.

“Sir, the police have been around a few times looking for you.”

Armitage turned, annoyed, wanting nothing more than to be in the apartment that he and Ben had made their home in now that he was there—wanting to be wrapped in familiarity, however hollow it might yet be.

_—about Ben’s mental state._

“Yes, well, I’ve been at the hospital.” Over their coffee he’d asked Organa, why hadn’t the police simply visited the hospital, come to round him up where he was guaranteed to be? Through some kind of political magic she’d kept them generally away from there, trying to ensure the family’s privacy. She’d given them his cell number in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to go through a face-to-face interview.

“Dealing with a disembodied voice is quite a bit easier than watching their faces. Some smug, some full of pity. Doesn’t matter if it’s a press badge or a police badge—it’s always easy to tell when they hate you or they love you,” she’d said.

“We suspected as much, Sir.” Armitage nodded. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything, Mr. Hux, but they did ask me and the front desk a lot of questions about Mr. Solo and yourself—what the two of you are like, if there were any out-of-character changes. Asked if any of us noticed anything suspicious lately, besides. Told ‘em nothing suspicious except those vultures across the street that don’t know how to mind the rest of the residents. Did someone do something to hurt Mr. Solo, sir?”

Armitage sighed. He loved this building, he liked that its staff took the personal security of everyone in residence seriously, that they never took bait from tabloids and authorities alike. Sometimes, though, he wished they were far less familiar. “I don’t know.” He hoped his tone might convey his lack of desire to discuss the matter further.

“They wanted to get into the apartment. Super told ‘em that has far as he knew your name was still on the paperwork and they weren’t getting in without your go-ahead or a warrant.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, the thought of some stranger touching his things--Ben's things-- _their_ things--absolutely abhorrent. “If you’ll excuse me—“

“Of course, Mr. Hux. My apologies.” The doorman returned to his post, leaving Armitage to make his way up the stairs, foregoing the elevator to stall for time—bracing himself.

The apartment was chilly and still. Many of the accessories of their life together were already ready and waiting, packed carefully into boxes to either be moved to DC with Ben or moved into storage. Keeping this place, Armitage argued, would be better. Ben’s parents had helped them pay off their mortgage quickly, and although Ben insisted on paying them back every cent, they didn’t have to worry about large bills like that—just the monthly maintenance fees, the utilities.  They could even rent it out—make a profit to supplement their salaries, the place would pay for itself.

“Don’t want to surrender your primary base of operations, General?” Ben had looked up at him through those terrible eyelashes, sitting cross-legged on the plush area rug, student assignments fanned out on the floor around him. Gaze still on Armitage he stretched and leaned back toward the couch, propping himself up on an elbow with his cheek against his fist. “We’ll see, how about that?”

Armitage had sighed and rolled his eyes and chucked his own work aside, research for something that he couldn’t remember now. “How is it that you’ve gotten your way at every step since this started? You’ve not made a single concession to _my_ whims.”

“Yes, I have.” He reached over to pick up Armitage’s hand, fingers brushing over the lines around his thumb, circumnavigating it with his own. Armitage’s stomach clenched and fluttered. A moment of rebellion, a snide poke at the Commandant’s station made as a freshly minted adult; the tattoo had been a constant reminder of his own weak will as much as it was a proclamation of his strength and potential. Ben had silently made it something more over the last few years together—always pressing his lips to it, brushing his fingers against the ink.

Armitage couldn’t name it, but it was there.

“You have _not_.”

“I shaved my beard like you asked.”

“That thing on your chin did not qualify as a beard and it was mortifying. It doesn’t count.”

Armitage turned away from the living room now, moving deeper into the apartment. His eyes grew wet, the overwhelming smell of _home_ closing in on him as he went. Ducking into the bathroom, he pulled his clothes off, leaving them in a heap on the floor while the water of the shower warmed. He scrubbed himself down, rubbing the loofah over his skin under the nearly uncomfortable spray until his skin was glowing and pink. The phantom sound of Ben’s laughter, his sighs, rang against the glossy tiles until it was buzzing in Armitage’s head.

Dried off roughly, he collapsed into their shared bed. He pulled the comforter over himself and hugged a pillow close to his chest. “Fuck you, Ben,” he whispered, inhaling him. “Come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me cry the good kind of tears, guys. A sincere thank you to the people who have left them so far. I go back and read them often.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ETA 12/20: Now with amazing art of post-Starkiller Hux by the wonderful, amazing NOXOGOTH.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com/post/154713124589/hopeless-cathedrals-aryagreenleaf)

Kylo shuddered and sighed, a high-pitched whine sneaking up the back of his throat while the General’s lips pressed against the corner of his mouth—too close to the inflamed skin of his cheek.

“Come back to me. When you’re through with him.” Hux looked down at him, stretching his bare length along Kylo’s and dragging his toes over soft hair on Kylo’s shins. “We could be _great_ and _terrible_ and _powerful_.” Each adjective tumbled from Hux’s plush bottom lip with another kiss. He eased himself down onto the narrow cot, fingers tracing the ragged edge of the stickiplast around the perimeter of the large transparent bio-shield protecting Kylo’s flank.

Kylo fought the instinct to flinch away, Hux’s cool fingertips against his hot, irritated skin a shock that ran through to his core.

“I never thought to consider you—always stalking and slashing, not a reasonable bone in your thrice-damned body.” Hux brought his lips against Kylo’s ear. His words were humid, whispered. “And then there you were, still and quiet and pale in the snow—all haloed in red, a _Starkiller_ on your own.”

Kylo could feel Hux’s cruel smile against the side of his face. He closed his eyes and jerked his head away, a sharp inhale whistling through his nose as Hux’s fingers danced down over his belly and sharply filed nails grazed his spent cock. “I’m not some blasted ignorant rimkin, Hux, and it doesn’t require the Force to recognize manipulation.” He yielded to the warm, wetness of Hux’s tongue against the notch in his throat all the same.

“Guilty as charged, Ren.” He moved his mouth up slowly, nose sweeping the curve of the underside of Kylo’s chin. “Is it working?”

“No. You’re still a treasonous fool, in or out of my bed— _ah!_ ” Hux’s fingertips teased against his most intimate spaces, already overly sensitive and used. “You haven’t got any interest in me.”

“Are you sure? Will you report me? Turn me in to the Moff?” His teeth grazed hard against the unmarred edge of Kylo’s jaw. “Whisper in the Supreme Leader’s ear of my treachery? I wonder, Ren, would you carry out the sentence yourself? Or would you leave it to that death-masked Mirialan? He’d do it quick, I think—pierce me with his blade and let me drop where I was. Or would it be the little one? Let her bludgeon me as a messy example to those who might follow suit.”

Kylo turned his face toward Hux, dipping low to speak directly against the shell of his ear. “I’d carry it out myself.”

“But you won’t.” Hux cocked a brow high. He looked like a common criminal—hair hanging down freely, half-shaved and bandaged, dark circles beneath his eyes giving stark contrast to freckles that Kylo had never before given much notice—drawing himself up with a knee between Kylo’s legs and a hand planted on either side of his head. “Because you’re afraid. You stink of it—bacta and infection and fear. Bringing my imagined misdeeds to Snoke’s attention won’t distract him from your very real failures.” His eyes fluttered, nearly translucent lashes shimmering as they shook with it against the retaliation of Kylo’s fingertips digging hard into his hips. “Failures that would have never come to fruition if it weren’t for Snoke’s poor use of you.” A smile spread his lips into a pink smear. “You’ll come back to me.”

Two and a half cycles brought Kylo aboard the docked Finalizer once more, Snoke’s deadline burning ever closer along the rope around Kylo’s neck. His head buzzed as he strode through the corridors of the half-abandoned ship. Those still aboard were in a liminal space, a limbo that straddled exhaustion and mourning and rage with equal footing in each. He could feel it all too keenly, pummeling him from the outside and settling into the rush of his blood.

Something, someone, in his head whined and demanded his attention a world—a galaxy—a universe—a lifetime away. Anguish that wasn’t his own weighed heavily on his shoulders. It soaked into his bones, made him ache.

In his own quarters, he turned away from the crematory relic in shame, moving quickly through to his bunk. With considerable effort he removed the uniform casuals he’d been living in since he woke soaked in bacta. Tired, shaky arms lifted the basin and pitcher from his over-sized footlocker and toted them into the refresher. Filling each with warm water, he lugged them back. His knees crackled and popped as he lowered himself to the floor, shivering as bare shins touched cold durasteel.

His diaphragm clenching and unclenching with a wave of pained nausea, Kylo leaned forward over the basin. Bowing his head, he lifted the pitcher and began to pour, fighting back vocalization as the water ran in rivulets over his skull and rolled with gravity over the swell of his ruined cheek and down across the planes of his forehead and nose. With a sharp, full intake of breath though gritted teeth, he began to clear his mind.

_Nwûl tash._

It was old, archaic even, but it brought Kylo comfort.

“Tell me,” Hux had whispered. “What would Ben Solo think of all this? Where would his loyalties lie? Would he let himself be used?” He’d lifted the plasto pitcher of water off the floor and deposited it back on the grav-tray. Slender fingers then pried Kylo’s hands away from the sides of his face. “What’s happening in your head now? Hmm?” Kylo could feel the water he’d spilled as it soaked into the legs of his pants and the fabric of his soft shoes. “Is he in there now? Snoke? Is he telling you deny yourself? Is that what this is, then? Are you meant to abstain and you’ve failed? A thirsty man in the deserts of Jakku—impossible to quench.”

“No,” Kylo had allowed his hands to be moved, left them trembling and hovering in the air. “You are crossing a line that you cannot come back from, _General_.” He looked at Hux with a clear warning through his muddled vision.

Ren cupped his hands now, sloshing the water in the basin up over his arms and chest. He peeled away the bandaging so efficiently placed by the Emdees, grimacing as the stickiplast pulled at hair and tender skin.

_Dzwol shâsotkun._

He picked carefully at the stickiplast on his flank, skin an angry red as the adhesive lifted away. Fingers twitching, he raised his hand and a thin cloth meandered through the air from the refresher and plopped into the water. Bottom lip between his teeth, he set to cleaning lymph and bacta from his side, the scent of the latter overwhelming.

Closing his eyes, he could see himself—lusty with battle, saber slicing through man and machine alike and the Force guiding him as if on and invisible track hurtling toward his ultimate goal. His face grew hot as his imagination played games with him, conjuring an image of Hux’s flushed face and curled upper lip.

_Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk._

Snorting at his own lunacy, he supposed that there could be a kind of strength in that alliance, even if it was based in mutual distrust. Scolding himself silently, he plunged the cloth back into the water, ringing it out and watching the basin grow slightly cloudy. This was _treason_. He allowed himself to be taken to bed and taken in by a traitor no better than that Stormtrooper.

Spreading his knees he drew the wet cloth through the creases of his thighs. With a groan, he got to his feet, scrubbing over his legs to his ankles before sinking down with a creak and a crackle once more. The lukewarm water quickly grew cold on the cloth as he wiped away any lingering physical evidence of his most recent intimate encounter.

That was it. He’d put it out of his mind. It was the last mistake he would make in a string of too many. He would make his penance and he would take his proper place in the galaxy.

_Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan. Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha._

Kylo turned, angling his body so that the flow of the remaining water in the pitcher ran over his back and into the basin. He pressed his lips together, teeth squeaking inside his head as he ground them. Where was the power he was promised? The victory? The surge of Darkness that was supposed to overwhelm him upon choosing his path once and for all? He’d made his choice, turned his back on the Light in the most irrevocable of ways.

Nothing.

Nothing more than defeat and disgrace.

He could not understand, in all the hours since then that he had turned things over in his head, back and forth and upside down and inside out, how everything had gone so utterly and completely astray from the intended path—the one that he’d seen so clearly in his head the moment he discovered the _Millennium Falcon_ in the snow on _Starkiller_.

Kylo drew in a deep breath, holding it in his chest, and resisted the urge to rub at the increasingly tender space just below his collar bone.

_Ashajontû kotswinot itsu nuyak. Wonoksh Qyâsik nun._

Pressing his eyes closed, he drew himself up on his knees, imagining the Force gently lifting him and wrapping itself around him like a fresh white bandage from medbay. Minutes lost to meditation in which the buzzing in his head quieted, he rose and cleared the basin and pitcher, emptying them in the refresher. He returned to his bunk and dressed in the only other clothing he possessed—a simple black tunic and slacks, a length of unfinished Sullust leather wound about his waist. Sitting down on the edge of the bunk set deep into the wall—too short for his frame by far in all directions—he suppressed a groan as he bent down to retrieve his shoes from the open footlocker, tall and supple of the same leather.

Dressed, Kylo ascertained the General’s location, and moved there on practiced feet. In the outer offices of Hux’s quarters, he sat behind a sleek transparisteel desk. Before him, worse for wear but sitting at attention all the same, were Unamo and Phasma.

“It is with heavy heart, Captain that I have come to know that you were indeed instrumental in the destruction of _Starkiller_.”

“Sir, I—“

“Do not interrupt me, Phasma. You are a commander of the finest army the galaxy has to offer. A traitor, an old man, and a Wookie should not have posed a problem for you.”

Phasma’s cheeks flushed pink and she sat up fractions straighter than her already perfect posture seemed to allow. Her right hand twitched against her thigh, fingers brushing against the tight wrappings immobilizing her left arm against her chest.

“But considering your current condition, you won’t be formally disciplined. I need all of the able commanders I have at my immediate disposal—you’re no good to me rotting in a detention cell.”

Hux narrowed his eyes and looked up at where Kylo stood just inside the doorway. “Ren.” He pursed his lips, displeased that Kylo had let himself into the room. “I’ll be with you momentarily, unless of course there is some _urgent_ communication from Supreme Leader you wish to convey.” Unamo glanced toward him, less battered than Phasma, a single white butterfly across her brow.

“Carry on, General.”

Hux glared and then continued, detailing some operation that he wished the pair to oversee—reorganizing the Stormtroopers and gathering all of the various Special Forces squadron leaders. Kylo listened passively, his hands folded at a neat parade rest behind his back. His vision grew unfocused, conscious thought zeroing in on the way the unpolished cloth of his tunic rubbed against his various hurts. His head buzzed softly.

_Ben, please come back. Are you in there? Can you take my hand? It’s here—right here. Can’t you feel it?_

_Ben._

_Ben._

“—en.” Hux rose behind his desk as Phasma and Unamo cleared the room. “You’re preparing to leave, I presume.”

Kylo nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have something of mine.”

“Do I?”

“Don’t play games, General.” He approached the desk, staring down his nose at Hux’s nearly impish expression.

“Well, I suppose I could return it to you now. I’d planned to see you off, a little parting gift of sorts.” He stepped out from behind the desk and pressed his fingertips to the access panel beside the entry to the interior rooms of his quarters. Kylo followed close behind, barely taking note of anything beyond the pneumatic door. Hux moved in beside his bunk, identical to Kylo’s own, and touched another access panel to cause a storage unit to slide soundlessly out from the console in the wall. Hux reached down inside the unit and produced Kylo’s lightsaber. “Trooper found that in the snow, nearly lost it over the edge of the gorge.” He held it out for Kylo to take, an expectant look on his face. “You should be more careful with your things. It’s my understanding that kyber crystals are rather difficult to come by these days.”

Kylo took the saber, gripping it tightly and dropping his hand to his side. “I’ve had enough of your impertinence.”

Hux’s lips quirked into a smile that disappeared just as quickly. “We’ll see. You’ll be notified when your shuttle is ready for departure.”

Later, enrobed in an officer’s greatcoat, stripped of its insignia, Kylo waited for the technicians to complete their final diagnostic tests. Some underling dragged a supply crate aboard, struggling with the weight of it. Their face washed in surprise as the crate suddenly began to move smoothly up over the ramp. Kylo’s fingers twitched against the heavy sleeve.

_Peace is a lie. The Force shall free me._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about potentially triggering material and a mildly spoilery clarification of relationship between main characters in the endnotes.

Ben felt like a robot.

He lectured. He answered questions. He graded papers. He ingested more coffee than was probably reasonable for a single person to consume in a single standard axial rotation, even a person of his size.

_Hey, mom_. He’d greet. _Yeah, I’m good! My students this semester are wild. They have so many ideas—they all really want to learn._ He’d laugh, hoping it sounded less hollow than it felt, and remark that they’d reminded him why he’d wanted to teach in the first place. _Book’s coming along. I’ve got my next chapter ready for the editor, just need to give it one last spell-check. No, no one else has seen it yet. Not even ‘Tige._ Leia would ask how Armitage was, how Ben was doing on his own. _It’s quiet. Not that ‘Tige is particularly loud—it’s just… you know._ Leia would make a sound of agreement. He could picture the look on her face as she thought of Han, how she’d be smiling and listening to him breathe on the other end of the line—but her eyes would tell and entirely different story if you really looked.

Luke said to him once that he had Leia’s eyes. Not in the sense that he looked at all like her—everyone seemed to agree that he was Han’s child through and through—but in something about his expressions.

_Always like the weight of the galaxy is on your shoulders._ Luke would crack a rare smile. _Sometimes I think it really is._

Ben looked up from his desk, bewildered.

“I said, do you want coffee or anything? You look like you could use a cup or twelve.”

“Ah, no. No, thanks.” He rubbed his eyes and dropped the red marker he was holding onto the desk. “I can’t take anything from you anyway, kid. Against university policy.”

The graduate student who served as his occasional TA laughed. “Who said I was buying?” They crossed their arms and leaned against the door frame in a manner that suggested they were interested in more than coffee. “Not to, like, offend you or anything, Ben, but—“

“Professor.”

The TA’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. They cleared their throat. “Professor. Not to offend you, but, when was the last time you got any sleep?”

Ben squinted at the wall, looking at nothing in particular. “When did I start my Masters?”

The TA snorted. “Alright, well, I’m gonna head home in a bit. Do you need anything copied before I go? Snoke’s got a pile of stuff, figured I’d ask.”

“I’m good.”

“See you tomorrow then.” They lingered in the doorway.

“ _Yep_.”

The TA retreated with a sigh, mumbling to themselves as they went. Ben rolled his eyes, making a mental note to request a new TA for the following semester. He began to gather the papers spread across his desk to finish marking at home where he could do so in peace and paused.

He wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the fumbling attempts of this particular TA in the spring semester.

He wouldn’t be teaching at the university any longer.

He’d be in DC.

With ‘Tige.

And an altogether new crop of TA’s.

Ben pressed his lips into a hard line and stood shoving papers into his bag with a bit more force than was entirely necessary. When had that notion stopped making his stomach fill with excited butterflies? When did it stop making his heart beat faster?

When did it start filling him with dread?

When had the dread dampened into _nothing_?

He jammed his arms into his coat and threw his bag over his shoulder. As he scooted around his desk in the narrow space between it and the shelves he glared at the metal container filled with writing implements sitting innocently beside his empty mug. With the back of his hand he batted it over, sending markers and pens and pencils flying toward his chair.

Satisfied, the tiniest pang of _something_ in his chest, he flipped the lock on the door handle and sealed the office behind him.

At home, he dropped his bag by the door, content to leave his grading for the morning. He shucked his shoes as he moved across the living room and into the kitchen. Setting a pot of water onto the stove, he cranked the heat up and walked away. Waiting for the water to boil, Ben turned around slowly in the living room, taking an inventory of the wall coverings, calculating how large a box he was going to need and wondering where he’d put the roll of bubble wrap. Finally taking off his coat and dropping it in a heap on the couch, he moved back into the kitchen, pot clattering against the burner as the water bubbled.

Ben put his mind to measuring out precise amounts of salt and dry farina. He stirred, tricked into contentment by the creamy mixture spinning in spirals around the spatula. Thickened, he splashed in an arbitrary measurement of cream and scanned the kitchen counter for a moment. Plucking a half speckled banana from the bowl, he made quick work of slicing it and folding it into hot goop before the whole thing burned. He dumped it carelessly into a bowl and retreated back to the living room.

Perhaps the evening news would grant him solace from the nothingness in his gut that the farina refused to smother.

The news rolled by. Then the entertainment shows.

Ben’s phone rang as the prime-time sitcoms got moving, the tinkling melody of it harmonious with the canned laugh-track.

“Hey, mom. No, I can’t really talk right now. Yeah, I’m in the middle of grading papers—they need their drafts back next class. I’ll call you tomorrow. Uh-huh. Love you, too.”

He tapped at the red phone icon without looking and dropped the phone on the cushion beside him.

It rang again just as he settled back into the corner of the couch.

“Fucking _Maker_.” He rolled his eyes toward the phone, screen lighting up with Armitage’s sun-burned and freckled face. His stomach lurched. He tapped the key to ignore the call.

_Working. Sry. In office._

_No problem. Just wanted to say hi._

Deleting the text, he closed out the application. Phone still gripped loosely in his palm, his attention slid back toward the television. Nine-o’clock chimed out, musical and delicate from the clock in the middle of one of Armitage’s collection of small display cases. The television changed the channel of its own accord. The dark thrum of the intro music of the next show began to play. _If I had a heart, I would love you._ Ben tensed, his phone vibrating and clinking out his text-tone in his hand once more. He took a deep breath, counting to ten. It wouldn’t do him any good to throw the thing across the room. _If I had a voice, I’d sing._ He looked down at the notification on his screen, a number not stored in his contacts. Brow furrowed he flicked his thumb across to expand it, lines between his eyes growing deeper when he realized that the area code was vaguely familiar. He finally unlocked the phone to read the thing.

_Hey, Ben! Hope you don’t mind, Leia gave me your number. It’s Poe Dameron! I’m going to be in NYC on leave soon, thought maybe you’d show me around? Or we could get dinner, catch up. Haven’t seen ya in forever!_

Ben squinted at the message, considering. He jumped, startled as the woman crusted with dirt and blood on the television screen let out a monstrous bellow.

_Sure. Give me a call. I’ll see if our schedules work together._

_That’s great! You teach now, right?_

_Yeah. Still flying?_

_Of course! Couldn’t ever do anything else._

Ben’s cheeks flushed, imagining the day Poe Dameron had announced he was enlisting—freshly eighteen, dark flop of curls over his forehead, warm eyes bright with enthusiasm—Shara and Leia had looked up at him from over the top of their shared Saturday-morning coffee with wide smiles. Ben had burned with envy and stalked off to the garage, disappearing under the belly of the car Han had promised to work on with him. He’d been too satisfied when Poe’s parents had asked him to at least complete an Associate’s program first—just to be certain. It had kept him at home for another two years, even if it hadn’t put too much of a damper on Poe’s general optimism.

_Well, sounds like a plan, then._

_:)_

Ben watched as a band of Vikings were captured by an French king. Shackled, they sat in a communal cell looking utterly bored. He shook his head and thumbed at the power button. Standing, he considered the collection of dishes on the coffee table and left them, barely considering how annoyed Armitage would be at the lax attitude if he were there. Everything always _just so_. Ben didn’t consider himself messy or lazy. Armitage was simply obsessive. It had become downright pleasurable leaving dishes for the morning or laundry to the end of the week.

Ben flopped into bed, temped to just get comfortable and sleep the way he was. Lying down, finally, all inertia halted, his limbs felt like they were made of lead—his head a boulder of… what had the Jeopardy question been? Osmium. His head was as heavy as osmium.

He moved into the middle of the bed, spreading his arms and legs out like a starfish, letting his head sink between the pillows to either side. San Tekka wouldn’t approve. He’d tell Ben that it was important to try to keep to a routine, that it was okay to slack off sometimes but he’d been letting it drag on for far too long.

That would be what San Tekka would say if Ben had been at all honest in their last few sessions, at least.

Ben sat up, wiggled out of his clothes, tossed them toward the hamper, and flopped back down.

Small steps.

He watched the clock shift past midnight—and then two.

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

Ben slipped out of bed, leaving his socks and underwear in a trail on the floor to the bathroom. He turned on as few lights as possible, the ones over the sink enough to let him find his way into the shower and see what bottle he was picking up. He stood under the hot spray for some time, relishing in the velvety warmth and semi-darkness of the steamy room. He soaped himself down, scrubbing hard with the loofah until he imagined his skin was rosy from the abrasion, and then savored the sting of the water beating down on his chest and arms. He fumbled for a moment, knocking bottles into the tub—impact against the ceramic ringing out like gunfire. Grinding his teeth, he ducked down to gather up what had fallen and set everything back on the wire rack in the corner with purpose.

“Let’s try that again, shall we? Yes, Professor Solo, I think we shall.”

He took his time, working his fingers though his hair, making sure every strand was damp, scratching in circles against his scalp until shivers danced down his spine.

“Shampoo.”

He sighed, glad to have grabbed what he wanted without knocking anything else over, and popped the cap open.

He shook the bottle, upended, once, hard.

He squeezed it, plastic crackling in his grip as it crushed and expanded again.

He shook. Nothing.

“ _Fucking_ —kriff—Maker on _high_ —dammit!”

He shook the bottle violently, shouting with his mouth wide, echoing back at himself against the tiles.

Ben twisted the knob, water cutting off abruptly, and shoved the curtain aside. The plastic and fabric popped off the first ring, metal clinking against metal as the ring spun on the rod freely.

Naked and wet, he stormed through the apartment, feet slapping against tile and wood in the dark. He blinked, shocked by the brightness of the light in the kitchen when he flipped the switch, and threw the crushed shampoo bottle into the recycling bin with a clatter. Light off, he stormed back again and sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched into fists.

Ben breathed deeply, counting slowly in his head to five and holding it for the same.

He emptied his chest, counting again.

Minutes ticked by, the green glow of the digital clock at the bedside letting him know he’d been sitting there in the damp spot on the comforter with every joint tensed tight for nearly ten. Slowly, he forced himself to stand, to unclench his fists, and to struggle into his pajamas with clammy skin.

Scolding himself, he reached for his phone. “This is stupid. This is so _kriffing_ stupid.”

The number he dialed rang once, twice. The person on the other end coughed and cleared their throat. “H-hello? This is San Tekka.”

“Hey, doc. I—I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

Ben could hear him as he lowered the phone from his ear, shouting. “No! Ben? Ben!”

“Doc, I—it’s almost three. I’ll call the office when it opens, really.”

“Ben, I gave you my emergency line with the intent that you _use it_.” Ben listened to the rustle of sheets. The acoustics changed, San Tekka moving through his home as he spoke. “What can I do for you?”

Ben took a shaky breath and scooted himself back against the head of the bed, drawing his knees to his chest.

“Ben?”

“Um, yeah I—“

“Take your time.”

He let a whoosh of air out of his chest, curling in on himself and then relaxing. “I think that I might not be doing that well.”

“How so?”

“Having an—an episode? A breakdown? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired, doc.”

“Well, it’s good that you called then, Ben. Are you breathing?”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence. Lor San Tekka was an excellent doctor. Ben thought so almost explicitly because he never prodded or poked. He let Ben talk or be sullen and silent. Instead of making evaluations he directed Ben to make them for himself. A lifetime of counseling and treatment had made him an ally against the war going on in Ben’s brain.

“I haven’t really been honest. You know, when we talked.”

“Oh?”

“I haven’t… I’m not… It feels like—it feels like, you know, it feels like that summer.”

“How long, Ben?”

“Couple of weeks? Month, maybe, tops.”

“Ben, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me. Have you been taking your meds properly?”

“Mostly.”

“ _Ben_.”

“I ran out last week.”

“Ben, you now that you can refill those yourself.”

“I know! I know. I just… I’ve been busy. And I haven’t really felt like they’ve been working anyway!”

They talked for the better part of an hour. Finally, Ben couldn’t stop himself from yawning.

“Well, I think that may be the cue for you to get some rest, Solo.”

“Ah, you know me, Lor. Gotta be one with the universe at all times. Being deliriously tired is the best way to do it.”

“On that note, I don’t think I’m going to admit you tonight—this morning.”

“No?”

“No. I know you’re going to be okay when you sass me.” Ben laughed, raspy and quiet. “But we do need to have a serious conversation about medication. Might just need to change things up.”

“I’m not going back on lithium.”

“Ben—“

“No. I hated that shit. I do well enough being an empty can on my own lately.”

“Ben, shut up and listen for a damn minute.” He gaped, shocked at the blunt admonishment. “When we got you on the lithium, you were _in crisis_. We purposefully over-medicated you. Once you were stable, we decreased the doses and the variety of meds you were on. We figured out what was going to work for you—and look, it’s worked for fourteen years. I don’t think that you’re in crisis right now. I think that you’re stressed at work—overwhelmed with your writing—and damn lonely. Come into the office today. I’ve got an opening at four if that works for you. If not, I’ll skip lunch.”

Ben sighed, “Alright.”

“I’ll see you later, Ben.”

“Yeah, doc.”

 

***

 

Poe Dameron was nothing but smiles as he hustled through the gate. Ben exhaled in a rush as Poe collided with him, wrapping him in a hug and thumping his back enthusiastically. “Ben! Holy moly, Ben!”

“Geeze, Poe!” He laughed and thumped harder and drew back, gripping Ben’s arms firmly and looking up at him. “Dameron, did you shrink?”

“Yeah, funny-man Solo, uh-huh.”

“Baggage?”

“Yep, and you’re carryin’.”

Ben sank into the cockpit of his car after tossing Poe’s luggage in the trunk and pulled away from the airport. “How long are you in town for?”

“Not long, couple’a days, week maybe? I’ve been saving up my leave all year so I can spend some time at home. Parents are gonna meet me here and then I’ll go with them.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel in Manhattan. I’m almost positive it’s where they filmed that shit movie with the guy— _fuck_ , what’s his name? They released chickens on the subway.”

Ben wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That movie was terrible. And you’re not staying there.”

“Where am I staying then?”

“Uptown, with me.”

“What? No. I couldn’t do that.”

“Yes you can. I got a guest room that never gets used.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. You got plans?”

“Nah, figured you’d know better, city-boy.” Poe grinned, bouncing his knee in time with the music that filled the car.

Ben pulled into his usual space outside of the apartment building and looked at Poe expectantly. “Well, here we are.” Poe whistled and slipped out of the car, commenting on the old-brick and decorative stone of the neighborhood around them. “Yeah, that’s why we picked it. Building’s really secure, private. Only a few businesses. We’ve basically got the whole top floor.”

“How the hell much do you make, Ben?”

He laughed, grabbing the luggage and pointing Poe toward the front of the building. “Not enough to afford this place, to be honest. But that’s why I’ll be eternally grateful for my trust fund. Mom and Dad helped a lot, we got rid of the mortgage pretty quickly—we own it outright, so it’s just taxes and building maintenance, pretty much.”

“Wow.”

Ben smiled, a twinge of sadness in his chest. “C’mon, I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

After they’d settled Poe’s things into the modest guest room and he’d been acquainted with the layout of the apartment, they reconvened in the kitchen. “Did you just move in or—“

“Moving out.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Did you and, um—“

“Armitage.”

“Yeah, are you two not, well—“

“No, we didn’t break up.” Ben snorted feeling warm in the sunlight streaming in through the window. It played in a golden glow over Poe’s features and made him unfairly handsome—not that he ever hadn’t been. “’Tige got a pretty big break on the job front, he had to relocate. I’m going to go down there too once the semester is over.”

“Oh, wow. Where?”

“DC.”

“I’m sure Leia’s thrilled.”

“She is, I guess. She helped us set ‘Tige’s place up when he first moved in. I think she’s trying not to hover, mostly.”

“So are you sellin’ this place or what? Seems way too good to give up.”

“You know? I don’t really know. We haven’t decided yet. I think we’d both prefer to stay here. But, you know, the job—“

“What is it?”

“Archivist, researcher, something or other. I… I actually don’t really understand it completely. But he handles a lot of old documents and objects and stuff. He wanted a position at the office here, ah, downtown. But it switched or became unavailable or funding got moved around or something. He could only take it if he went down there. I kinda had to make him take it.”

“But if you guys like it here then why?”

“His old job was killing him. He was working under a bunch of complete assholes at this law firm who treated him like he was still just an intern. I couldn’t watch him win their cases for them and get absolutely nothing in return any more.” When prompted Ben explained that Armitage wasn't a lawyer, but worked in a consulting position at a fairly major firm.

“Geeze.”

“I don’t think he noticed, but he was literally losing his hair, he was so stressed out.”

_“What_?”

Ben nodded, unable to stop the flow of words once he’d started. “When he didn’t have pomade in it, you could kinda see his scalp. Never used to be like that. He was paler. Not that he’s not pale—he’s fuckin’ translucent on a good day, _I swear_ —but like, pale so that you notice how much damn weight he lost, how dark the circles under his eyes are. He was barely eating, sleeping.” He dragged his hands back through his hair and dropped them down to his sides again. “Don’t even get me _started_ on how much of a chore the sex got to—“

“I—“ Poe’s eyes were wide with bewilderment. “I don’t want to get you started on the sex.”

“Maker. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Poe laughed, easy and light, cutting through the tension. “It’s fine, Ben. Just, a little much for the first time we’ve seen each other properly in, like, a _while_.”

“Shit.”

“So which one of you thinks he’s Leland Orser?”

“What?”

“ _Bone Collector_.”

Ben sorted, getting the joke. “’Tige. He’s been collecting them since he was a teenager. I gave him a few of them.”

“It’s an interesting hobby.”

“He’s got a cat, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Millicent.”

“Millicent?” Poe asked, entertained disbelief in his tone.

“Sometimes I can’t decide if he’s nutty or I am. Well, I _am_.”

Poe shook his head, disappointed at Ben’s self-deprecation. “We’re not talking about a real cat, are we?”

“Well, she’s real in the sense that she was once alive.”

“That’s fucking creepy, Ben.” They laughed, falling into comfortable silence. “So where is Millicent?”

“’Tige took her with him to DC. I’m not… I’m not making fun of him. It’s a joke—treating Millie like she’s real. He teases about it, too.”

“I didn’t think you were. It’s funny—it’s cute.”

Ben wrinkled his nose at the comment. “It’s a whole thing. With his parents. They’re not… well, parents. He just had the skull for a while and then he bought the rest of it later, after we started dating. Sometimes I think that stupid cat is the only reason he’s still here.” Ben gave Poe a meaningful look and he nodded in understanding. “This got really dark really fast, didn’t it?” Ben took his phone from his pocket and checked the weather for the day. “How about Times Square? Get all the super touristy shit out of the way first.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!”

It was an unseasonably warm day. The sun glittered off of the buildings, glowing neon even brighter for it. Ben felt light on his feet, a weight seemed lifted from his chest. But that was how it had always been with Poe. There was something about him, even in childhood; something like a natural—supernatural—boost. They stopped frequently, Poe looking at Ben meaningfully when they came around to spots where people were clustered taking photos. Poe would tug at his sleeve, trying to direct him into the path of a well-angled selfie. Ben would insist that Poe pose on his own.

Poe loped down the red steps that formed the roof of the TKTS booth in the middle of Times Square-proper. He was smiling wide and waggling his eyebrows. “C’mon, come up there with me! We’ll ask someone else to take it!”

Ben sighed and shook his head. “I’ll give you a selfie.” Poe made a show of lifting his arms in the air in triumph and plastered himself to Ben’s side, rising up on his toes to be more in line with Ben’s shoulders in the frame of the photo. “There, you wore me down. You hungry?”

It was the height of the afternoon rush and while Ben regretted suggesting the well-trafficked location, Poe didn’t seem to mind. Finally at a table, the pair of them relaxed, looking all around at the memorabilia they were surrounded by. They’d landed themselves directly underneath a former President’s saxophone on the wall. Poe seemed lost in bliss as he took a long sip of the Coke their waitress finally put in front of him. Ben picked at the wrapper on his straw, feeling himself drop almost as if it were a physical thing. Poe drew his fingers across his lips, brow raised.

“Alright, how’s this gonna work? You talk first? I talk first?”

“You talk. You’re better at it.” Ben finally peeled the wrapper away and dunked the straw into his drink. “What have you been up to?”

Poe shrugged, thoughtful. “The usual, I guess. I’m in the middle of a tour, had to use last year’s leave before I lost it, hence the nice month-long vacation. I honestly just can’t wait to get home to my dog.” Ben laughed, “Hey! You’ve got Skele-Millie, I’ve got BeeBee.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“She’s a retriever. Most beautiful animal you ever saw.” Poe shrugged. “My friend Jess has been staying at my place, taking care of her while I’ve been away. I’m pretty sure I gained a housemate in the process.”

“Your mom must be thrilled.”

“Nuh-uh, nothing like that. Don’t get smart with me, Solo. She’s just keepin’ the place running. Last time my enlistment was up, hers was too. Jess loved the flying even more than I did, I think. But she was getting burned out. I re-upped and she declined. She needed a place to stay so I told her to take mine. BeeBee was with mom and dad, but they moved and there wasn’t really space for her to run around—so now Bee and Jess are nice and cozy.” Poe smiled and thanked the waitress when she set the armful of plates she was carrying down between them on the table. “I’m having deciding trouble whether to stay in when this tour is up, myself.”

“I can’t imagine you doing anything else, Poe.”

He shrugged, “Well, it is tiring sometimes. Like any job, really. I’m not sure I’d have trouble deciding if I knew I could ask to maybe be put at a desk for a little while—or be an instructor. But I could do that on the outside too. Jess does, teaches flying. Or I could go commercial—fly freight, passengers. You know how when they recruit you, they tell you all about how you can see the world? I could actually do that.” He fell silent for some time, peaceful over his food. “Or I could stay home for a bit, hang out with BeeBee.” He barked out an utterly entertained laugh. “I could work for your mom! Maybe she needs another intern on the campaign.”

“The campaign that officially doesn’t exist?”

“That’s the one!”

“I should introduce you to Finn and Rey.” Poe gave him a questioning look. “Mom was in town earlier this year, I took her to this place I used to go for coffee all the time in my old neighborhood. Those two have worked there for as long as I can remember,” he huffed in amusement, “I think they were in high school first time I went in. Both of ‘em are in college now. But anyway, they spotted mom and it was like I didn’t exist anymore! They both work at her office here in the city—coffee at that place sucks ever since they left. I bring them some now if I’m going by the office at all. Rey thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Ben Solo doing selfless, cute shit for former baristas. Now _that_ is something I never thought I’d hear about. Why do you think I need to be introduced to a couple of kids, exactly?”

Ben shook his head, smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling around Poe—which made him feel awkward and mildly frightened. Awkward, because as hard as Ben had tried to hate Poe as a child, he’d always had this way, always made it impossible. Frightened, because the growing incandescence of his current happiness only made the stark grey way that thinking of packing the last box and reuniting with Armitage made him feel.

“I don’t know. I just have this very weird feeling that you’d get along or something. Like it happened in a past life already.”

Poe was laughing around the bite of food he’d taken. “Is that part of the whole _energy is circular and indestructible and the universe is a singular entity in a state of perpetual flux_ thing?”

“You… you read my blog?”

“Of course I do.” Poe shrugged and told their waitress that everything was great when she came by to ask. He caught her as she started to move away, asking for a beer. “You?” Ben shook his head. “Well then I won’t.”

“Don’t be dumb, get a drink.” He nodded at the waitress and pointed at Poe to indicate over the sudden noise of the place that she should bring it for him. “So you read my blog, you were saying?”

“Should I not?”

“No, it just doesn’t seem like something you’d be interested in.”

“Well, it _is_ interesting, Mister Reluctant Padawan. The way you kinda weave the sciencey things in with your philosophy things is pretty cool.”

“I came up with that name when I was young and dumb. Can’t be held against me.”

Poe thanked the waitress when she returned and took a sip of his drink, a satisfied expression on his face. “Are you okay? You’ve sort of got this fever-flush look happening.”

“I what?” Ben swiped at his forehead with a napkin from the stack in the middle of the table. He was suddenly very warm. His stomach flipped over.

“You’ve been a little green around the gills all day, honestly. I just thought you hadn’t slept well or something—my flight did get in pretty early.”

“I—I’m okay. I think.” He looked slyly in the periphery of his vision before holding his cold glass against his cheek. “I think it’s just the new meds. I’m gonna have to call the doctor later.”

“Do you wanna go home now?”

“No, no. I’ll be fine.”

“We can—“

“I’m _fine_.”

“Alright. I talked. Now you talk. Seemed like you wanted to this morning. What’s up between you and the other half?”

“I told you… or, I spewed it, I guess.”

“You’re both stressed as hell, some really big changes are going on, and your sex-life sucks.”

Ben laughed, “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“But if I remember right, you two are kind of made for each other? I remember, one time I was home on leave and Leia and mom were Skyping. She was saying something about how _sure_ you were about this asshole ginger kid. That you were going to spend your life with him come hell or high water and she’d never seen you so adamant about anything since deciding that pants weren’t necessary when you were three.”

“That’s just lovely.”

“Hey, our moms have been best friends since before either of us came along. I was _there_ when you decided pants weren’t necessary. I was six and thought I was the coolest damn thing ever because, you know, kindergarten, and you were _so embarrassing_. I whined every time my mom said you were coming over.”

“Well, I apologize for my past misdeeds.” Ben shook his head, amused and fractionally less warm.

“So what changed?”

“I’m no longer three and fairly certain the university would frown upon teaching while pants-less. I guess I could go with a skirt though—I’ve been told I have pretty nice calves.”

“Don’t evade the question, Ben.”

“Have you got my doc in an earpiece or something? I feel like I should change my name to Roxane.”

“I hated that play. Now out with it, Solo.”

Ben sighed and focused on finishing the pile of French fries in front of him. “Do you… do you remember that last summer you guys spent up at the Vermont house with us?” Poe’s expression darkened, he nodded. “I hated you then.”

“I’m not surprised, Ben. I caught you snorting Oxy off of some girl’s ass and told your mother.”

“I didn’t hate you because you caught me or you told my mother.” He wiped his hands and moved his utensils onto his empty plate. “I hated you because you didn’t catch me sooner.”

“What?”

“How… how I felt, after ‘Tige left. Sort of… nothing. Just empty. Muddy, grey, like I was full of cotton instead of guts. That’s how I felt that summer—how I felt for… for a while before that summer. And then they put me on all those meds and it just made it fuckin’ _worse._ Like, hey, Ben, we figured out what the hell is wrong with your brain so we’re gonna screw you over even more. And, I mean, I get it now. San Tekka’s explained to me more than once that they needed to load me up to get me stable and then ease off of it and figure out a better strategy. But I was just trying to feel something—anything—that wasn’t…. greasy soup.”

“And?”

“And, first off I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself taking all that shit and doing what I was doing. I’ve never been as good at stabscotch as I was that summer.” He snorted, almost in disbelief at his own recklessness. “I think the biggest thing was that I felt like no one was paying attention to me anymore. I was diagnosed, I was on meds, I wasn’t having wild episodes so I wasn’t getting in trouble—I hadn’t come home with any stupid-ass piercings in a while…” He paused, thinking of Armitage’s stripes. “All infected—all closed up, by the way.” Poe grimaced and took a swig of his beer. “Never trust a kid with a hot needle. Anyway… and you were leaving—you were the golden boy and the center of attention and—“

“Ben, it is _not_ my fault that _you_ fucked up.”

“I’m not saying that. I’m say I was a jealous little shit and I was screaming out trying to get somebody to hear me. And you did, finally. You were the only one that did. My whole world was getting up-ended and you were the only one who looked even the slightest bit close enough to see what was happening and find me out.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re snorting Oxy off of asses again?”

Ben made a frustrated sound, “No. I—I’m rambling like an idiot is what I’m doing.”

“Alright, so start over.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Ben—“

“No, I mean, I changed my mind about ‘Tige and DC. I don’t want to go.”

“Do you,” Poe squinted and crossed his arms. “Do you want to break up with him?”

“Ye—no. No, I absolutely do not. I just… I like it here. I like where I teach and I like our house and our neighborhood and I like that stupid shitty coffee shop. I don’t want to feel like nothing and I don’t want my life up-ended.”

“So then don’t move.”

“What? No, I can’t do that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“I already put in my notice and accepted a job in DC.”

“So? You’re Ben Solo. Who is going to tell you _no_?”

“It’s not that easy.” It probably would be that easy. The university had offered to bump his salary to keep him. “I can’t do that to ‘Tige. Not when I pushed him so hard to go in the first place.”

The week was well spent showing Poe around the city between classes, taking him and his parents to a show when they arrived toward the end. Late Saturday afternoon, Ben accepted hugs from Shara and Kes with promises to do a better job of keeping in touch and a copy of his book once it was officially published.

Poe clapped him on the shoulder, looking up at him with earnest eyes while his parents moved toward the waiting area for their train. “Hey, it was good to see you, Ben.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Talk to that crazy cat-man, would you?”

“Put in your desk request.”

“Life would be so much easier if slipping you a cookie before dinner under Leia’s nose was still the best way to get you do shit.” Poe grinned and pulled Ben down into a tight hug. Turning away, he waved over his shoulder, jogging to catch up to where the Damerons were already moving up in the boarding line.

Ben sighed, hands in his pockets as Poe disappeared through the gate. He squinted against the bright glare of his phone outside on the nighttime streets.

“Hey, ‘Tige. If I got in the car now, would you still be awake when I got there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potentially triggering things:  
> -Ben has difficulties with his mental health including a brief, if significant outburst  
> -Discussion of medications re: mental health  
> -Brief past narcotic-usage mention
> 
> Additional notes:  
> -This is not past or implied darkpilot/benpoe. They're just friends and have grown up alongside each other.


End file.
